Monster Ranch
by ChuckTheElf
Summary: The Interspecies Cultural Exchange Act is months away from completion. All is in readiness; hosts selected, agents in position, liminals eager to see the world outside their secure lands. Leif Larsen knows nothing of this, yet.
1. Resistance

Skies changed color all the time, the most common a massive shift between the pure black darkness of night and the almost blank white hue of noon. Sometimes, the view depended on where one stood. Sailors knew that fact very well; the dark blue of deep seas blending into the greener, shallow portions made the sky reciprocate in kind. It had been said, in ancient times: 'As above, so below.' There, the reverse was also true.

On land the same principle applied. Lush vegetation softened the harsh glare, while bare rock reflected the sun's fury with equal fervor. Snow performed the task to an even greater extent, granting sunburns on the more fair-skinned folk in overcast conditions, forcing them to wear protection at all times.

Leif nodded slowly, watching the progress of his largest herd meander across the back forty. It held a certain rugged beauty; hills that provided direction for water, and tree lines planted by people long since gone provided shelter from the wind. His land was blessed, encompassing large quantities of variable terrain. Right now, the long waving grasses rippled in darkened whorls under the wind, land he'd inherited from his grandfather. To the west, the vegetation became sparse, buttes and even a portion of a mountain range ran through his property. There his cattle wouldn't graze, but the change in geography was welcome all the same.

His ATV gunned to life between his legs, rumbling in the fashion all heavily-used four-wheelers did. Ordinarily, he'd have ridden a horse, but checking fences on the furthest stretches didn't always work well with the equine-nature. He whistled once, a sharp rising tone. Within seconds, the heavy weight of a border collie landed on the back luggage rack, followed by an excited _yap-yap._

The engine rumbled louder, and Leif accelerated. His cattle, Black Angus all, didn't bother doing anything more strenuous than looking up. They were well trained, unlike what his neighbors achieved. If coyotes came around, they'd circle themselves, turning a straggling line of walking meat into a defensive powerhouse. Very few creatures were willing to risk their well-being against a wall of half-ton herbivores, each specialized in stomping little furry things. By comparison, other cattle would panic, running for the nearest shelter, leaving the weak behind. Some farmers just didn't want to take the time to do things right.

To that end, Leif wore the same style clothing every time he made his rounds. Anyone that looked differently than he received suspicious treatment – exactly how he liked it.

Turning slightly, the ATV wheels found the twin ruts they'd cut into the ground. They dropped into place, reducing the jostling. An increased breeze lashed the tops of taller brush against his legs; hints of inclement weather.

Getting back to the house took time, over half an hour. En route Leif kept an eye on the sky; the western horizon looked dark, foreboding. _Looks like rain,_ he thought.

Eugene barked agreement. He always agreed … within reason.

 _Think we'll have time to finish harvesting the barley?_ Leif squinted at the mountains, beyond the edge of his property. Their peaks were invisible in the gloom, foretelling bad weather imminent. _No … better not. Take too long. Shoot._

The collie commiserated with a high-pitched whine.

Wind grew faster, whipping the tall grasses into a tossing frenzy of motion. Leif could watch the individual gusts, tracking their progress as the greenery roiled through its paces. Trees, already swaying under the force, bent further in waves. He frowned, opening up the throttle. It was really turning out for the better, that he hadn't ridden a horse; by the time he reached home the storm would likely be on him. Unusual; the disturbance must have picked up speed since his last check on the radio.

Still … there was a certain thrill in racing a storm. Leaning lower, Leif accelerated yet more, letting his machine tear through the shorter grass on the cow path.

Home was only minutes away.

* * *

To his surprise, there a large black sedan had parked in his driveway. A man in a black suit was sitting on the porch under the extended roof, safe from the infrequent gusts. Most ranch-style houses had them for this very reason.

He waved at the figure, continuing his current route to the barn. A few things needed to be done before the rain hit. As he approached, another pair of border collies ran out to meet him, barking a welcome. Eugene, on the back of the ATV yapped a friendly response, perhaps a bit smug at his elevated position. The pair followed Leif into the barn, the dimmer lighting forcing him to slow down.

"Easy girls, down." Leif shouted to them, raising his voice to be heard over the machine. Both border collies abandoned their attempts to leap at him, descending to an alert seated position. "Good girls, that's my girls." He ruffled their ears, scratching them the way they liked it. "How about some food, eh?"

Their seated position sprang into a standing one, so fast he hadn't seen the normal intermediary phases. "Alright then. Let's get you and Eugene fed."

Checking on both horses in the barn took little time. Leif added some hay to their mangers, but left the water. Rain would channel through the gutters far faster than they'd need, the excess wash through the overflow. Water generally wasn't a problem on his ranch – a great blessing – but enough wasted opportunities tended to wait until reaching critical mass before becoming a problem.

After emptying nearly half a bag of kibble into three bowels, Leif finally left the barn, closing the main door most of the way. The black car still remained parked before his house, the dark suited man seemingly content to remain seated. That gave him both a worrying sensation, and a comforting one. Anyone willing to sit for however long this man had either _really_ wanted something, or just possessed the patience to negotiate properly.

Leif paused between the house and the barn, raising his eyes to the western sky. Dark, looming clouds billowed, dropping long sheets of rain in the distance. He closed his eyes, letting the stiff breeze play over his face and tug at his hat, feeling the brushing touch die away into terrifying calm. Lightning illuminated the inside of his eyelids when he blinked, the follow-up thunder shaking his bones.

Unhurriedly, he walked to the porch. Aged wood creaked underfoot, solid enough to have lasted nearly a century, yet remain sound. Leif tilted his Stetson back, touching the brim respectfully. "Howdy."

A man, short in stature but emanating a nearly tangible aura of officious authority, rose to his feet. "Greetings Mister Larsen; Agent Wesson. My apologies for coming unannounced, do you have a few minutes to speak with me?"

A heavy gust of wind made the empty rocking chair next to Leif lean forwards a few degrees, then rotate back. Raindrops spattered past the overhang, the first scouts of the storm. He wondered if there was a connection between the weather and the sudden appearance of his guest. _Don't be ridiculous; if this man needed help, he could probably use a fancy satellite phone or something._

Leif opted to give the man a nod, opening his unlocked front door. Gesturing to the man, he entered, flipping on a few lights to relieve the overcast gloom. The man muttered something under his breath, and followed.

Inside, Leif turned off an old television set, silencing the ambient noise it generated. Using the boot-jack in the hall, he pried off the thick-soled footgear, dropping them on a plastic mat near the doorway. His guest watched, confused for a moment, before slipping off his own spotless patent-leather shoes.

 _Manners. A good start._ Leif hung his Stetson on the hat rack next to the boots, just above a second cowboy hat, dust on its brim. His own hat, like his boots, told a story just by its appearance. Store-bought cowboy hats emphasized spotless pristine surfaces, and a curve even enough to calculate geometry problems. _His_ hat showed character; a brim with sagging edges from exposure to the elements, bleached sides in uneven patches, and a misshapen crown. The other hat, similar to the one he'd just let rest, shared the uneven appearance, but looked older.

"Cup of joe?" Leif asked. His feet were already moving, leading the man to his kitchen.

The man's shoulders relaxed. "That would be delightful."

Being alone on a ranch had, perhaps, reduced Leif's capacity for small talk. At the least, it appeared to have stunted Agent Wesson's attempts at the same; several times the man had started to say something, then subsided. Leif's demeanor didn't encourage garrulous conversation, lacking any reaction to directed statements from the agent. _There's no need, whatever needs to be said will be said when necessary._ Talk was cheap; actions spoke volumes, and the man had done nothing but attempt half-constructed sentences and worried motions.

Uninspiring, to say the least.

On his own part, Leif let his hands perform nigh without direction. The small device whirred to life, heat in the underplate warming the glass container. Fresh ground coffee beans poured into the upper filter, wafting the scent into the air.

The small man cleared his throat nervously. "Have you … perhaps heard of liminals?"

Leif leaned against the counter, scratching at his head. "Some kind of lightbulb company?"

"Not … exactly."

Rain pelted down on the roof, lashing away the dust and grime built up over the past few days. Wind jumped at the chance to cause more mischief, flinging the downpour into as many directions as possible. Fortunately, that meant the windows to the southeast were relatively untouched; perfect for just sitting and relaxing.

Leif poured out two mugs of the steaming, fragrant liquid. "Sounds tricky. Siddown."

The officious man gratefully accepted the beverage, sipping at it almost immediately. "Good heavens, that's strong!"

"Strong enough to keep a man awake all night if he has too," he agreed. Before saying anything else, he reached his rocking chair, the one that had been in the family for three generations, and settled down. It felt comfortable, strong and supporting. Every family owned something similar, whether a pair of spoons on the kitchen wall, or an ancient rifle that rested in a place of honor. Most carried far more than just one heirloom, making the entire populace an eclectic hodgepodge that would bring museum curators to their knees.

Agent Wesson mimicked his action, sitting down on a four-legged chair. "Let's just say I am working with the government on behalf of a large group interested in acquiring property here in Montana. It has to be, by necessity, fairly large. Their specifications for the land are exacting, but can be understood to be roughly fifty percent grassland and fifty percent mountainous terrain."

"Mister Larsen," he paused to take another sip, wincing as he did so. "Your property fulfills many of the requirements. Would you be interested in selling part of your land? I can guarantee above-market pricing, and favorable terms."

Such a question didn't require deliberation. "Nope. Not interested."

The little man's shoulders fell. "I had not really expected a ready agreement, to be honest. According to the records, you are listed as owning over thirty thousand acres, and leasing another fifteen thousand from Mrs. Olinger … I believe …" a tablet of advanced design appeared in Wesson's hand, clicking twice before chirruping negatively. "Is there a signal out here?"

"Nope," Leif said again. He stretched his unburdened feet out, wriggling the toes in their blessedly unconfined liberty. One of the windows on the far side sat open a few inches, letting a delicious cool breeze wash over him, almost pure bliss. "Don't need it."

A look of surprise planted itself firmly on Wesson's face. "N-no one uses a cell phone out here? I'd imagine it to be a critical method of communication!"

Leif snorted. "Handy little gadget, I'll give you that. But we've never needed it before, don't need it now. 'Sides, not enough people."

Wesson blinked. "Not enough … people?"

"Yeah." Leif reached to one side, picking up a book that lay on a table. Its well-thumbed pages flipped open to a column of numbers, pencil markings neatly highlighting individual rows. "Montana's a big state Mister Wesson. Big farms. The Wilks have over three-hundred and fifty hundred thousand acres, and the Galts have near two-fifty. Has to be big; real dry out here. Spread apart. Nearest town is close to forty miles away, maybe fifty people clumped together between there and here. Main highway is seventy miles off if it's an inch, and it costs money to set up towers. No one wants to spend that much on maybe a dozen people. We got landlines though, had to pay over two grand every other mile for installation."

Old wood creaked. "Me? I'm small potatoes compared to them. Sure, average in-state farmer has two thousand acres, but they haven't been here as long as I have. Plus," The wood creaked on the rocking return motion, "I have water. Plenty folks don't. Bit of a problem in a drought."

"As long as you have?" Wesson pounced. "I was under the impression that you were fairly young?"

Leif slowed his rocking motion. "Yah. So?"

An expression of impatience crossed the agent's face. "Back to the subject, why will you not sell? You could purchase land _anywhere_ else with the amount we'd be paying you."

"Don't _want_ someone else's land. Got my own." Leif jerked a thumb at the open window, perfectly showcasing the storm's fury beyond. Fresh, damp air blew into the room in a refreshing breeze. Colder temperatures would have necessitated a fire be lit in the solidly built fireplace on the inner wall, maybe he'd build one anyway. "Four generations my family's been here. Longer on my Ma's side. Like the Good Book says: 'be content with what you have,' and I got mine."

The conversation didn't appear to be going the way the agent had hoped. "Would you consider leasing some of your land then, if you will not sell?"

That was not a subject Leif wanted to open. Leasing gave folks the hope of ownership; the same way he hoped to someday own the verdant fields he rented from the Olingers. "Not really interested in that either. Maybe the Kaldens down the road might be in for that?"

"Ah." The agent pulled back, taking another sip from the mug in hand. His eyes crossed the room, taking in the furnishings.

Leif let him think, in turn observing the little man. _He hasn't prepped much, that's for sure. Someone sent him out here because numbers lined up right._

"Agent … Wesson," he spoke up. Hopefully, the pause before speaking the man's surname suggested doubt. "I don't really think you understand. My family has been in pretty much every conflict in the Good 'ol U.S. of A. Both World Wars, the Civil War … heck. I got a grandpa with a few great's attached in the Revolution. What I mean is, we love our land. Not worship you understand, but we do take care of it. So then …" He deepened his voice, leaning forward for emphasis. " _Why in heck are you trying to take it?"_

Wesson jumped in place. "Well, you see, that is classified. Unfortunately. But not for long!"

Leif just looked at him.

"I mean, the information that would make this all clear for you is … Top Secret."

"Top Secret," Leif snorted. "A fancy way of saying a buncha secretaries, sergeants and senators can know about it, but not the folks you're stabbing in the back."

The agent's hands rose, then fell. "I can certainly see why you would feel that way. But my orders are clear, what I'm working with is big. _Huge._ Literally changing the world in a fundamental way. _Generations_ will consider what is about to happen more important than the creation of the atomic bomb."

"And yet," Leif let the rocking chair pull him back, settling into its wooden embrace. "You want me to sell my land, for something I don't know anything about, and don't really care."

"I represent your country!" Wesson shot back. "You may not respect _me,_ but it is your patriotic duty to support your country!"

Leif snorted. "If _you_ are my country's representative, we're borked." The red flush creeping up from under Wesson's collar tempted him. Thoughts about provoking the man into unwise action danced through his head … until he cleared them out. Feeble or not, this man did have a point. "Let's start small. Who are you, and who do you work for?"

Wesson carefully pulled his hands together, eyeing the rancher. "As I said, I am Agent Wesson, of the State Department. My division is commonly referred to Special Relations … that is to say, liaising with organizations that wield powers similar to nations, but are not internationally recognized."

A silence stretched as the grandfather clock slowly marked time. Wesson glared at him, obviously uncomfortable.

Leif rocked slowly, letting his thoughts wander. It'd been true, that each ancestor had been in major conflicts. Consequently, he had a keen awareness of national behaviors, and the potential ramifications thereof. _Groups with the power of nations … sounds like terrorists. Or a big company. Aliens too, on the outside edge … but unrecognized? What does that mean?_

Before he could voice a question, the telephone rang. He decided to ignore it for now, let the answering machine take the message. It clicked on, _"Hey Larson, Earl here. I need some help with the cattle; Billy's down in Wyoming, and I kinda need the help by Thursday. If you can lend me a hand, give me a ring."_

 _Not a problem,_ Leif decided immediately. _Patches hasn't had a chance to do anything fun since that rodeo a few months back._ _Thursday, that's day after tomorrow. Gotta get the chores done._

"Well," he rose to his feet. "Thank you kindly for your offer, but I don't want to sell. There's plenty of people here that probably have what you want though, I can put out a few calls, see if they're interested?"

The agent slowly rose as well. His dapper suit looked subdued, "I didn't want to ask this, but would you be willing to host people on your ranch? The … Bill … is going to become public knowledge in less than three months, and I need to find a place for them to stay as soon as possible. As I said, you will be more than fairly compensated for hosting some very important guests …."

Leif didn't hear the rest. His mind sped immediately to a pathetic sight he'd seen; the oldest ranch in the state. It had been a symbol for independence and self-reliance, the kind of rugged individualism that separated _farmers_ from the pathetic folk who couldn't survive without takeout every other night. But the owner had decided to capitalize on the fame, taken clients for riding horses, playing at driving tractors, stooping to reservations and room service.

The last he'd seen of the owner, the man had been catering to a wealthy investor, agreeing to remove a tree row because it 'ruined the view.'

 _Guests? On MY ranch?_ The thought imploded, cowering to the back of his mind in fear.

"Listen Mister 'Special Relations' Agent-That-Won't-Talk-Clearly. I do _not_ run a 'dude' ranch!" Leif realized too late that he was clutching the coffee mug with lethal intensity. Wesson's eyes were impressively large, pupils shrinking to mere pinpoints.

Leif released the presumptuous fool from his gaze. "Good day, Mister Wesson. I'm not interested in any of your offers. Now please do us both a favor: _Get. Out."_

Silently, Wesson retreated. The door's squeak could barely be heard under the downpour outside, but slammed harshly.

* * *

 **A/N:** Not my normal genre, but a friend introduced me, and my biology background can't resist spinning theories about liminals. And I love to tell stories. Special thanks to Silverbug28 for his advice and kind patience. His own work is a bit more humorous, of you'd like to check it out!


	2. Stampede

The idea of letting his ranch degrade into such a pathetic state grated on Leif's nerves, even two days later. Though the agent had obviously not meant anything personal by the idea, the fact still remained that _someone_ had assumed the Larsen home would willingly cheapen itself.

 _That's unfair,_ he scolded himself. _Plenty of decent farmers out there take a few guests now and then. Best way to earn a few quick dollars now and again. A compliment, that someone likes the land so much … right?_

Such thoughts managed to leave his mind in peace. _His_ farm wouldn't face that fate. Not while he was alive.

Whickering brought his attention to the present. An insistent, velvet nose pushed against the nape of his neck, prodding him. Patches, his working horse, disliked it when routine failed. She had a knack for knowing his moods, part of what made her so well-suited for work.

The phone inside the house gave a loud ringing tone, shrill enough to be heard from the barn. Reluctantly, Leif gave Patches a fond slap, and headed back towards the house.

He arrived in time for the answering machine to kick in. _"Hi Leif, it's me again. Thanks for helping out, I really need the assist. Um … there's kinda one thing. Could you dress up a little before you get here? Not Rodeo duds, just … spiffy? See there's this girl, and … you know. Anyway, don't break out the silver saddle or anything, you know what I mean? See you when you get here."_

Leif exhaled an irritated sigh. "You dumb fool. Always thinking with your muscles."

He hesitated, before grudgingly going to the closet. "Nothing fancy, but dress to impress. Fine … one of these, maybe that … some spurs? Keep them handy, don't really need them. But … need the boots."

Changing his gear took almost half an hour. Fortunately, most of the clothing rested where they'd lain after the last rodeo he'd attended. Tack was easier to find, next to the special 'cutesy' bandannas his dogs had become expected to wear. He had to shake his head at that; a sister had made that mistake some years before with an entire different canine generation. Now, the Larsen ranch had a reputation, animals that both looked good and worked well.

Soon after, Leif had the trailer attached to his pickup. After a few minutes of deliberation, he'd added the spurs, a rowel version with the jinglebobs. Hearing the little metal bits jangle kicked the dogs into a near-insane level of happiness; they _adored_ performances.

His pickup creaked under the weight of three excited border collies tumbling into the cab. An older model, but completely serviceable, the pickup had been a gift. Both parents had decided the ranch needed a new vehicle when they left; and had purchased it brand new at the time – the only transport on the ranch so obtained. It rumbled into gear, smoothly pulling the trailer out of the circled gravel driveway and onto the state road.

Earl Zakapenko lived a short fifteen minute drive away, in a flatter range. The distance would have been shorter, but the road followed a longer route than the crow flew. Still, the miles rolled under his truck's tires faster than the music on the radio, even when the dogs sang along.

He needed to get even with Lina for that.

Fifteen minutes of the dogs accompaniment, including a howling chorus in Johnny Cash's 'Ring of Fire,' and a road that needed re-grading, saw Earl's ranch entrance come into view. Like most ranches Leif had seen, there was no overarching gate, just a well-defined turn-off. Naming your home was a tradition that belonged in the South; if you didn't know where people were, you didn't _need_ to know. Safety in anonymity, combined with a bit of local pride – if you've done well, everyone knows where to find you.

Or just use the address system that'd guided the national postal service for a few centuries.

To Leif's surprise, there was a large black van already in Earl's driveway, pulled over next to the fence. It looked like a massive vehicle, roughly the same mass as a grain truck, but spread across a larger interior. It had to belong to the girl. Or her father … a reasonably well-off father. He took another look at the all-terrain tires, how the chassis remained horizontal despite a rut nearly six inches deep. _Definitely well-off. Bordering on wealthy. Earl, you idiot._

Pulling the battered trailer over into the shade of a tree belt, Leif flicked off the radio, silencing the next song. The dogs mercifully became quiet as well, hunkering down at his hand signal. Training had taken years, but was always worth it in the long run.

 _Now what?_ He took a moment to think. _"Swagger out like a Western movie star, go all grumpy to make him look garrulous by comparison … what?"_

Scheherazade, the older of the two female collies looked up at him with soulful, brown eyes. Leaning over, he ruffled the fur behind her ears, just the way she liked it. Of course, as soon as he scratched one, he had to pay similar attention to his other two, making sure their eyes danced in happiness before he stopped. _"Dogs don't care what anyone thinks. Why should I?"_

Cheerfully, Leif opened his own door, repeating the motion commanding his dogs to stay in place. With the windows fully down, they could exit if necessary, but the last thing anyone wanted was a collie attempting to herd chickens or goats. "Easy there, we'll get to work as soon as I get Patches out an' ready."

Three sets of pointed ears went up at the word 'work', but went down again as he moved to the trailer. The jinglebobs rang at each step; he could see his horse's ears prick towards him, going to full alert. He ignored the black van, treating it like a large vehicular-shaped boulder. What its occupants thought didn't matter – not to him.

"Hey there, easy girl," Leif kept his voice low, hitting the lowest registers possible. Unlike dogs, horses responded to deeper tones; logical, considering their mass. Dogs liked squeaky-high pitches, horses adored floor-shuddering bass. Fortunately, he could do an excellent falsetto … if not a perfect one. Baritone was as far down as he could go though, a handicap sometimes.

Patches glanced back at him, eagerness clear. Almost before he had her untied, she was backing to the ramp, going down its slant with nimble feet. "Whoa there, easy! We have time, don't worry."

Her head bobbed as if in apology. He couldn't resist patting the graceful arch of her neck, smiling at her eagerness. Shifting his fingers, Leif rubbed her underjaw a certain way. "Ready for some fun?"

Again, Patches bobbed her head. Leif chuckled. After looping her reins on the trailer's side post, he went back inside for the tack. As suggested, the truly showy hardware had not been selected; a medium-weight working saddle had all he needed. Pragmatism was extremely attractive in its own right after all.

"Leif!" A warm tenor cut through the morning air. "You're here!"

Leif lay the horse blanket on Patches back, triple-checking for wrinkles. Next would come the saddle; a solid twenty five pounds of reinforced leather. "Obviously."

"Don't be like that," Earl came closer. His voice dropped. "She's in the car right now, back seat."

The horse didn't flinch as Leif tightened its straps. "I'll tell you this right here, right now: It's a bad idea."

Earl scoffed, but somehow failed to refute his point. Stepping back, he nodded at the barbed wire fence. "I'm moving the number two herd over by the house. Coyotes got a calf last week, savaged another one yesterday. If I hadn't been out there riding herd …."

Leif stopped for a moment. Losing a calf couldn't hurt a man as well-off as Earl, but the man was a neophyte when it came to ranching. The man hated to see anything suffer; a noble sentiment, but crippling if taken too far. Still, the man had a good heart. "Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah," Earl's head bent for a moment. He brightened. "But the rest will be fine after I get them closer to the house."

That was certainly an opinion. Leif took care to avoid making judgement, and resumed settling the last of the tack on his horse. "Number two is a little wild. Who else you got helping out?"

Suddenly looking nervous, Earl shuffled back a step. "Well … just you and me, really. Wesson if he knows how—"

" _That_ thumb-fingered—?" Leif closed his mouth with an audible click. "Don't tell me he's trying to get you to sell too?"

A crow made its raucous noise overhead. Earl scratched the back of his neck looking even more uncomfortable. "I wasn't going to tell you so soon … but … I've been thinking about retiring."

Leif gave him a flat look.

"Don't look at me like that!" the other man almost shouted, then lowered his voice. "You know I'm no good at this job. My folks sent me out here because they wanted someone in the family working the farm. I've never been as good as you guys out here!"

The two held each other's gaze for a long minute, Leif thinking hard. While true, Earl had still been an excellent neighbor; mending fences where necessary, keeping his cattle in line. They'd shared road-clearing duties in the winter, taking the time to shove blizzard detritus off thoroughfares far outside the call of duty. When needed, they'd even shared equipment … although now that Leif considered the matter, Earl's hardware had always been on the newer side.

That spawned a side-trail in his mind. While not wealthy, the Larsen's had a goodly amount set aside. Enough to keep his parents in good housing, ever since the accident, and put most of their children through college – those that wanted it anyway. But, it had never been enough to justify leaving the family farm in outsider hands – he could sympathize with that. But to consider selling it like just another bit of land?

"Rich family?" he finally asked.

Earl's head bowed. Nothing needed to be said.

Leif shrugged, and resumed checking Patches. "Not my land. Not my call. Cattle still need to be brought in."

He could sense the other man still waiting behind him, legs shifting. "Going to need some extra help though. That Wesson fella will be as helpful as a rattler in a room full of rockers." He slapped his horse's shoulder affectionately. "Lucky for you I brought my dogs."

"Oh thank God," Earl moved away, haste in each step. "I'll saddle up Morgan, meet you in the pasture, alright?"

Leif raised one hand in acknowledgement. One more time he checked the riding gear; everything looked well, sat well. Half of riding was just making sure the equipment sat well; the rest was a matter of practice. Clucking under his breath, Leif made sure Patches was watching, and stuck a foot in the stirrup. Mounting gave him the same rush he'd always felt since a child. Power flowed underneath him, choosing to allow his presence. Raising one hand to his lips, Leif gave a piercing whistle, rising sharply.

Barking with joy, all three border collies exploded out of the pickup windows, bounding to meet him. He clucked to Patches again, whistled once more to the dogs, and headed for the gates. A cloud of dust chose that moment to swirl around him, letting the sun turn from clear rays to a golden haze.

Unseen eyes peered at his retreating back from behind reflective surfaces, watching carefully. If Leif felt any sign of their presence, he gave no sign.

* * *

Cattle were, in essence, herd animals. Among herbivorous classifications, they ranked among the highest for sheer body mass. Predators feared the beasts because of that; none wanted to discover itself inadvertently moving to a much lower part of the food chain: underneath half a ton of angry hooves.

Leif shrilled a call, pointing out a recalcitrant heifer trying to break free. Eugene dashed around the edge of the herd, confronting the young cow with a dazzling array of teeth and growls. It hesitated, leery of the apparent wolf that had a small pack at its back. Without prompting, Scheherazade took a minor detour, supporting her mate, compelling the heifer's retreat within the safety of the herd. She'd likely try again from a different angle, but he'd keep an eye out for that.

On the far side, Earl spun his quarter-horse on a dime. Whatever else one could say of the man, he was a _horseman_. He and his mount pivoted as one, fluidly transitioning between a graceful canter and dashing madly to head off another runaway.

Had he known it, Leif himself would have recognized his own riding as of similar caliber, with the addition of managing the canine helpers. As it was Leif found himself forced to double back, heading off a stubborn cow with a calf at her side. They didn't _want_ to leave the greener pastures; fields by the house were drier, less tasty. No one wanted to eat bland food, did they?

"Get a move on!" Leif brought his bullwhip into action, snapping its length just ahead of the bovine's nose. The cow jerked away, once more obeying the protective urges of the herd.

Wiping his brow, Leif considered the tableau. On _his_ ranch, the cattle knew well enough to retreat. More often than not, they'd simply follow his lead, especially if a bale of sweet alfalfa was involved. They didn't need to fear him, they simply recognized him as the leader of the herd. Earl's cattle on the other hand … Leif broke off the train of thought, smacking the overly-aggressive nose of another cow into submission with a firm rapping of the whip's stock.

No. There was no comparison.

" _Yeeehaaaaa!"_ Earl's high-pitched cry caught his attention. The former Easterner urged his horse into a short gallop. Nothing was in his way, but the man rode high in the stirrups like a competition was underway, points awarded to the most show-stopping contestant.

Leif rolled his eyes. "You know she can't see you way out here?"

The plains rolled away no matter which direction one looked. To the east, gray-green terrain mocked the idea of infinity. Just watching the vast distance gave credence to a Flat Earth concept. North and South, the ground rippled in the frozen waves of an unmoving ocean. But only to the West could the true mountains be seen, peaks lifting themselves towards the sky in giga-ton collections of snow and stone.

Nowhere could he see the black van, and its allegedly female contents. Anything slightly taller than the average garden gnome would be visible.

Earl waved his arm wildly, almost losing his seat. Regaining his balance, he moved closer before speaking. "Dude! They can see us _right now!"_

Leif scanned the area again. The nearest copse of trees rested innocently, over a quarter mile distant; well beyond eavesdropping distance. The only concept supporting that opinion was the faint buzzing of another of Earl's toys; invisible, but present. "They hiding in the grass then?"

"No man, look up."

Leif blinked twice, then looked up. Something that looked like a cross between a beetle and a robot hovered what looked like two dozen feet overhead. A smaller version, with a more spidery appearance, swooped to one side, spiraling outwards. Its appearance faded in and out of view, blending with the background – making it increasingly difficult to track.

 _Ah._ Leif lowered his estimations a notch. _Not his. What is this, some kind of reality show?_

Earl gave him a painfully bright smile, eyes begging. "Did I mention how thankful I am for your help today?"

"You brought me out here on a wrangling job." Leif couldn't hide the disgust he felt. "Now, looking good for the ladies is something I can understand. But I'm out here doing the work of a half-dozen men leaving my own work at home, and you're working with some idiot gee-man, pushing for a girl with more money than the Kennedy's … now they're sending idiot machines to spook the herd? No wonder they're so skittish!"

"It ain't like that," Earl put a calming hand on his horse's neck. It whickered, relaxing at his touch. "She can't get out, Wesson told me. Her folks are considering buying my property, but she's disabled. The only way she can see what's going on is through those bots. She has someone flying 'em for her – I didn't know about 'em until you got here I swear!"

"Tcha!" Leif dropped the reins, guiding Patches with his knees and a light tap with the rowels. She responded to his silent request, leaping into action.

Work. That always helped. No matter what happened, or wherever he went, there was always something to be accomplished. Patches, for example, knew how to respond without reins; a light tap of the knees or a careful jab by the rowels. Not the sharpened blades frequently seen used by less-skilled people, but the circular affairs, spikes so closely placed as to nearly be a disc. It had taken months to fully train Patches in the meanings of the first commands, but like most animals eager to please, it had only taken a year to teach the full set afterwards. A more intelligent animal would have learned faster, but Patches possessed an even temperament – invaluable for working cattle.

He reined in, checking on the herd's progress. Thanks mainly to the efforts of his dogs, it seemed to be approaching the eastern pasture with good speed. Not bad for only a few hours work.

A shrill scream ran down the length of Leif's spine. The quarter-ton of horseflesh between his knees quivered in response; only one animal could make _that_ kind of noise: a horse in pain.

Leif whistled to the dogs, using the trilling note to summon Eugene. Not far from where he'd left them, Earl and his horse were alone in the center of an increasingly agitated group of cattle. He focused on the former Easterner; the man looked lost, and confused, despite being in the midst of his own cattle. What's more, both man and horse were moving _sideways_ ; anything that could shove over a quarter ton of horseflesh wasn't about to be considerate.

"Hyaah!" Leif kicked his horse into motion, letting her make decisions for herself. _He_ could see where they needed to go, but _she_ could read bovine-behavior ten thousand times better. Their partnership worked like a well-oiled machine: he'd provide direction, she'd decide how. The bullwhip sang from his hand, tip snapping. On occasion, it bit into the recalcitrant hide of cattle deliberately attempting to provide trouble. It was a cruel thing, but a man's life was in danger, which trumped being nice.

Just as Leif reached Earl, the other man's horse fell sideways, pushed by a belligerent cow ramming her greater weight into the faithful animal. It screamed again, twisting sideways while Earl spilled from the saddle in a heap.

Suddenly, the herd went from _dangerous_ to _deadly_. Leif knew it by the moving ears, the alert movements each beast suddenly brought to bear. Times like this spawned _man-killers_ , cattle that became completely unreasonable, doing their level best to harm as many two-legged creatures as they could. No matter how hard a rancher tried, the genes providing that basic instinct always remained in the herd; without it, anemic cattle would result. But there was a point where it could be controlled, especially by constant handling. A _dangerous_ herd didn't have to become _deadly_ , if the rancher knew what he was doing.

The herd was in worse shape than he'd thought.

Reflexes took over; Leif struck hard, savagely unleashing the full strength of his whip against the aggressive cow that had knocked over Earl's horse. Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he blasted the loudest whistle he could muster, quavering the tone up the scale. The frantic answering barks of his dogs responded almost immediately; they knew the _danger close_ signal.

Cattle on the other hand, responded by crowding closer. His whip kept most at bay, but it only took one thousand-pound-plus pile of mobile siege weaponry to crush a human. Instinct prevented most cattle-related injuries, but a herd in full stampede followed only one basic command: run.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be exactly what the situation was turning into. Stampeding cattle surged past him, batting Patches around like a pachinko ball. Earl's horse fought back, kicking with one leg, holding the other gingerly off the ground, screaming defiance – not good. A sprained ligament at the best, broken leg at the worst. If it were a bad break, there was only one solution: a final one.

The cattle pushed harder, sweeping Leif away at a glacial pace. He redoubled his efforts, now using the butt of his whip to club. Yelping warned him the dogs were getting in trouble … which left one option.

Leif paused, inhaling deeply. He exhaled once, and took another deep breath. Throwing his head back, Leif put every gasp of air into a scream. The sound tore at the lining of his throat, but emanated skyward, shuddering to life. Cattle previously pushing next to him jerked into their neighbors as the sound screeched upwards, launching their not inconsiderable mass away from him. He screeched again, this time putting as much heart into the cry as possible. The quavering sound tore at his throat, but redoubled the panicking cattle's efforts to get away.

Panicked cattle, moving away from him, gave an opening for Patches to gain ground. She surged forwards, trusting his signals. Gradually, the two forced a path to Earl, where his injured horse stood guard.

Vicious snarls cut through the herd, heralding his dog's entrance. They charged in, cutting a swath like a farming machine. Teeth bared, they shot to his side, barking and snapping at anything that moved. The cattle instinctively dodged away from the wolf-like animals, speeding up his progress yet more. Within a handful of heartbeats, Leif reached the fallen man's side, but didn't dismount. The herd still shoved forwards, momentum of nearly three hundred tons of panicked bovine.

Leif kept calm, and worked to divert the main body around Earl's position. Thundering hooves rumbled past, deterred by the snapping pop of his whip above and the sight of bared teeth below. Fortunately, the rest of the moving herd trotted past within minutes, the last member giving him a curious look as it trotted past.

Sighing in relief, he dismounted. Leif took a moment to rub Patches neck gratefully, and thank each collie in a hoarse voice. "Thank you girls," He saved a grateful pat for Eugene, "and boy. Saved my neck today. Extra in the bowl tonight, eh?"

A pained groan brought his attention back to Earl. "Hey, you can get up now. Herd's gone." Leif stooped to check on Earl's horse, whose leg still didn't touch the ground. "That herd is more than half-wild you know. Looks like at least two or three won't come quietly at all."

"Leif …."

The pained moan snapped his eyes over to the fallen man. Earl's long frame lay sprawled on his back, legs twisted awkwardly. But there was a terrified look in his eyes that bespoke something far worse. "Earl? What's wrong?"

The other man grimaced; his arms flexed, followed by his neck, then froze. "My legs … can't feel my legs."

Silence, broken only by the low rumble of the herd and blowing wind. Leif coughed, holding up a fist politely. He glanced down at the clear fluid, shot through with crimson lines and hastily wiped it where Earl couldn't see. Screeching like a wild Sioux in the middle of a hunting party had a price. "You can't feel _anything?_ "

"I can't feel my legs dammit!" Earl shouted. He stopped, jaw working in pain. "Lower back … hurts."

"Don't try to move," Leif was at his side at an instant, lowering Earl's head to the ground. "You have a sat-phone?"

Earl grimaced. "At the house. Use the landline, get an ambulance. First-aid kit in the entry, under the sink. Morphine, for Morgan."

"Morgan?" Leif glanced around, his gaze alighting on the horse. It made no sound, but still refused to set down its foreleg. "You named a quarter-horse _Morgan_?"

"Hah." Earl gasped in pain. "Sense of humor … still hasn't recovered. Leif, the doc?"

"Right, right," Leif snapped his fingers, getting Eugene's attention. "Scheherazade, Dunyazade: _Stay. Watch._ "

The twin sisters obediently sat. Dark eyes studied his for a moment, then Earl's prone form. "Good girls, good girls. I'll be back as quick as I can Earl, don't go anywhere."

"I'll try," he responded drily.

Whistling to Eugene, Leif hopped back in the saddle and gave a last look at Earl. The fallen man smiled, sickly. Spurs jangled, and he started for the house. It would have to be a fast ride.

* * *

 **A/N:** Chuck here, thank you for reading. I've been toying with this story for a bit over a year, tweaking and prodding my literary capacity. Suggestions? Comments? Let me know. For future reference, this will be a fairly short story (apx 8 chapters), but I'm treating it as almost a prelude. One liminal species ... but if/when I write the sequel, there will likely be more. This story is focused on how a human would react - realistically. Weekly releases anticipated, unless excessive adjustments are required.


	3. Paradigm Realign

Ground rolled past the galloping horse, thunder rumbling from its hooves. Just ahead, the Border collie flew low to the ground, legs blurred with speed. _Nothing_ stood in the way of a canine showing teeth; even the most brain-dead herbivore understood that _teeth_ equaled _meat._ Visual cues fired commands to a more basic portion of the brain, that reaction center responsible for taking over when the thinking part appeared ready to commit suicide.

Leif knew Earl's request for 'looking good' had failed at this point. Both horse and dog seemed the worse for wear; cockleburs stuck to their coats, fur matted with sweat and dust. He wasn't in much better shape himself. The same sharpened particles of herbaceous viciousness stuck to his boot laces, and dust smeared across his skin, dampened by sweat and spread in ugly streaks by his hand. Thankfully, there was no leather jacket – that was _too_ fancy – which meant the heat didn't reach unbearable heights.

On the one hand he was inordinately pleased to have avoided ruining show clothes, but on the other, he'd been suckered into a deal without knowing all the particulars. His head hurt, his throat ached, and a man considered a friend would likely lose his legs because of a foolish attempt. _Not as if he's actually done anything more than watch the girl, or even talked to her. Idiot._

Dry ground gave way to greener pastures, a sign he was approaching the spring near the house. Ranchers built homes on two principles: resources, and longevity. Tree breaks improved the latter, and water made up the majority of the former. Farms without water lasted a generation at most, before the owner tired of the long trudge to neighbors for the precious liquid.

"There girl," Leif shifted his body forwards, letting it rest on the horse's withers. He felt her response, muscles tightening; she reached for the bit. Leif let her have it – this was not a time to second-guess instincts. But what did she plan to do?

Looking ahead, he could see the fence separating the house yard from the pasture less than a hundred yards distant; its wooden-slat gate the most visible portion. Barbed wire extended from either post, continuing in a nigh-invisible fashion for the extent of the grazing property. A well-strung fence could last decades if maintained, a deterrent against wandering cattle and predators alike.

Not that coyotes considered barbed wire to be anything more than a speed bump in the pursuit of life, liberty, and luncheon.

His horse's muscles surged again, pushing even harder. Leif suddenly realized her objective: the visible gate. Tall grass grew along the barbed wire, but that topmost wire, by virtue of comparison, was practically invisible.

"Patches …?" he started to regain control, but the horse kept the bit firmly in her teeth. A few seconds later, and Leif could feel gravity shrug off all responsibility. Infinity stretched out to either side, the long fence line stretched as far as the eye could see. For a moment, Leif thought he could see an enormous bird flying overhead; compared to the hawk which seemed to be escaping at maximum velocity. It bothered something in his mind; ferruginous hawks feared literally nothing – which meant what now?

Hooves scraped on dirt, jolting Leif back to the present. He caught a brief glimpse of the black van's front window, darkened glass permitting only a hint of movement within, and then the main drive of Earl's ranch.

Pulling hard, Leif guided Patches towards the house, and freed up his feet. Patches knew that sensation, and slowed to a canter at just the right moment. He tumbled off, rolling with the impact. His hat flew in some direction – Leif didn't care – leaving him exposed to the bright sunshine. And the graveled road. Then sunshine again. Irregularities in the surface dug into his skin, abrading it like rough sandpaper. He ignored the pain, scrambling to his feet. The bullwhip attached to his hip retained its furled position thankfully; re-coiling the twelve foot length took time. Time he – and more importantly, Earl – did not have.

Ranch houses were designed to be long and low-slung, avoiding the wind while providing shelter. Most had a front porch running the length of one side, if not more. Earl's place was no exception. Painted white, the house had a long porch that boasted a pair of bench seats on either side of the door, perfectly located in the path of any wandering breeze. Wise homeowners angled the rooftops as well, adding the natural force of the weather to the cooling aspect during the summer.

Leif barreled through the front door. His spurs jangled off the hardwood, ringing at each stamp. _Kit … kit … where did he …._ Telltale blood-red colors in the shape of a plus sign peeked over the edge of a cupboard hanger. _There._

Snatching the first-aid kit, Leif did a quick check, making sure it was fully stocked. Next, he grabbed the wall-hanging telephone off the hook, and dialed. "Hello, I have an emergency."

" _Please state the nature of the medical emergency,"_ a calm voice responded.

Leif glanced out the main window. Agent Wesson was getting out of the passenger side of the van; he couldn't see inside, the angle was wrong. "This is Leif Larsen. My friend Earl Zakapenko broke his back, can't feel his legs."

The calm voice sharpened. _"What is your address Mister Larsen?"_

Rattling off the directions, Leif glanced outside again. Wesson appeared to be approaching the house. Probably had questions.

" _Thank you Mister Larsen, an ambulance is on its way. Is the patient in a secure location?"_

"No, had to leave him in the field; he fell in a stampede. How long will it take the ambulance?"

A soft hum disrupted the line for a moment. _"About thirty minutes. Can someone stay with the patient in the meantime? He should not try to move."_

"I _know_ that!" Leif tamped down on the irritation, the woman was only trying to help. "As soon as I hang up here, I'm headed back. His horse broke a leg at the same time, but I can take care of that. Tell your boys to look for the smoke, I'll start a fire out there."

" _Mister Larsen, please hold on, it would be best if you wait –"_

Leif dropped the receiver. Emergency channels could trace locations through the phone system, and Earl was still sitting in a field. Time wasted was time never recovered. He hurried back to the front door, where Eugene met him just outside, tail wagging, hat in mouth.

"Thanks fella," Leif slammed his hat on and whistled.

"Mister Larsen, what happened? The drones showed some kind of … accident?" Wesson's expected voice intruded on his world. "And what's with the rodeo? There's no need for –"

"Soak your head Wesson," Leif caught sight of Patches, coming at a canter. He whistled again, speeding her into a run. Calm flowed through him; action always felt better than waiting, and there was plenty for him to do. "Earl broke his back, ambulance on the way. Headed back, make sure he doesn't move. Tell the ambulance to follow the smoke."

The officious man followed Leif as he broke into a light jog along the raised floorboards, angled towards the porch rail. Flowers, planted by someone with a greener thumb than Earl nodded just below the highest plank. "Now wait just one minute here Larsen, what's going on? There are some _very important people_ in that van, and I _demand – !"_

Leif ignored him once more and took a running leap, pushing off the railing to land squarely in the saddle once more. Patches immediately accelerated to a gallop, headed back for the gate and past the black vehicle once more. Eugene ran alongside, barking in sheer exhilaration. Dogs seemed to like that, especially around horses – or maybe engine sounds prevented their voices from being heard? He shook his head; next thing to happen would be his rationalizing animals as _people_. Intelligent yes, but not sentient.

This time, the leap didn't seem to take so much time, and the dust trail left hanging from their first mad dash outwards still hung in the air. Patches galloped next to that first trail, following the floating cloud straight back to Earl. Unable to help himself, Leif let out an exhilarated whoop of his own – some things were just too perfect to pass up.

* * *

The ambulance followed his column of smoke, bumping over the rough terrain. With no traffic, its motion was relatively silent, the soft hum of an oversized diesel engine the only noise it made. He acknowledged their presence with a single upraised hand, watching Earl's wiry chest rise and fall under the space blanket.

Paramedics gently but firmly shouldered him aside. Leif took no offense; they were experts. Instead, he turned to something he _could_ understand, Earl's horse.

The poor animal's leg looked in bad shape. It made no sound of complaint – but what horse would? Their entire species survived by either being too fast, or looking too fast for predators to catch. Despite that ancestral command, the horse made small grunting noises, desperately seeking relief from the human. Relief that he would give – no matter how much pain it would cause himself.

"Wesson," Leif caught the government man's attention. "Hold this."

Wesson took the reins with wide eyes, then at the horse. "Muh – muh – me?"

Leif rolled his eyes. "You."

"Buh - but, I don't know how to ride a horse!"

Leif spun in place, taking a long step to place himself well within the smaller man's comfort zone. "That horse just broke its leg trying to help. You _will not_ try to ride him, just keep him from following the ambulance. When they drive off, it will try to go after them, hurting its leg even more. I'll be back with my trailer. Stand here, and _Do. Not. Move!_ "

For a moment, the slim, fumbling man seemed to fade, replaced by cold glittering eyes. It reminded Leif of the rattlesnakes often found sunning themselves, disturbed by unexpected presence. Wesson glared at him, then stiffly nodded. "Understood."

Finished with the man, Leif re-mounted Patches and whistled to his dogs. They came willingly, following him back out to the main drive. Most of the cattle had scattered, making themselves as difficult to round up as possible – but that was trouble for another day.

Letting Patches set the pace, Leif returned to the barnyard. He could take his time, not that urgency had completely left the situation. Instead of jumping the gate, he guided Patches over to the larger vehicle entrance, praising her for standing still while he undid the latches. Some horses went crazy when an apparently solid wall became mobile, or wanted to play far too much for something so mundane as _standing_.

Leif left the gate open, after notifying all three dogs to stand guard. He didn't look at the dark van this time, ignoring its presence entirely.

The ambulance rumbled out the gate minutes later, turning onto the gravel road with great care before speeding up. Leif stood still, absently stroking Patches bridle-free nose, watching his neighbor roll away. Ranchers, especially those living on their own, faced difficulties on a daily basis. There were no machines substituting manual labor; his own place no longer had chickens for that very reason. When injured, options became few: neighbors picked up the slack, hands were hired, or the land was sold. Local populations had decreased a significant percentage in the past few decades.

"Godspeed," he murmured. There wasn't really anything else to say. Except … now that he thought about it … he'd likely need to take over some of the chores for Earl's ranch. First of which: retrieve Morgan.

Driving back to the spot took less time than riding out. The trailer protested with groans, rattling and jostling the front as violently as it could – reducing his speed. Still, he reached Wesson without major errors to find the man gingerly holding onto the furthest part of the reins possible, arm extended, as if he feared the horse. His expression when Leif pulled in crossed borders between rage, relief and compassion. "About time you got here! I've been standing here for over thirty minutes!"

Leif took the reins, acknowledging the man with minimal movement. The injured horse tugged anxiously, eyes locked on the horizon. He clucked to the horse, guiding its limping stride to the trailer through the flattest routes, stopping and letting it rest if it seemed tired. Wesson followed close behind.

"Earl's headed to the Mercy Grace hospital; it'll take them an hour to get there, but no one else has the right specialists."

Leif nodded. Morgan hesitantly tried lowering its injured leg, only to give a pained, full-body shudder. "Easy boy," the horse's ears flicked towards him, pausing in their constant rotation. "Earl will be fine. Take it easy boy, you'll be all right."

Lies, if the look of the leg didn't mean anything. But comforting lies, designed to soothe, not incite.

"Wesson," he twisted his head around, "Can you drive?"

The man stopped short. "Drive? Where, the hospital?"

Leif sighed; did living in the city stultify brains so thoroughly? "To the barn. Morgan needs medical attention."

"Oh, right." The little man's Adam's apple bobbed. Any shadow of his earlier anger, the cold competence vanished. Whether it was a façade or not, Leif didn't know. "It's not a stick, is it? I can't drive stick shifts."

"Automatic." Leif nudged the horse another step up the ramp. "Drive slowly and carefully. I'll be in back, watching Morgan here."

He felt the truck's engine start, hearing its reverberating thrum fill the prairie air. After giving the go-ahead, grass started rolling past the windows. Wesson was better than he'd expected, easing the trailer around steep inclines, more carefully than if the cargo had been hazardous waste in the Federal Trust. It took minutes before they'd passed a dozen yards, but Leif didn't care; Morgan had his eyes open so wide he could see his own reflection in the pupils, but didn't fight his death-grip on the lead. Frankly, just being in back, waiting with the injured horse, was tantamount to suicidal aspirations. 'Trapped in a metal box with a half-ton beast mad with pain,' the veterinarian had growled that one time.

The trailer tilted, forcing the quarter-horse into an awkward half-hop. Leif cushioned the blow, grunting loudly. Not painful, he realized, just awkward.

He kept soothing his charge, muttering in low tones while stroking its neck. Repetitive, perhaps, but helpful.

Eventually the trailer slowed, gravel crunching under wheel. The black van still rested near the gate, but the steadily moving sun now rested beyond it. From this angle, Leif could see moving shapes, one gesticulating wildly. He turned his attention back to the horse at his side; whoever they were, he'd deal with them later. If he had to.

Hopefully, never.

Wesson appeared as Leif backed the quarter-horse down the ramp. "Will he be all right?"

Leif glanced at the hanging leg. It dangled, more severely than a strained tendon would have done. "Maybe … but probably not."

The slight man glared at him. Leif decided the man was a superb actor, and raised his own estimate accordingly. "And just what does _that_ mean?"

Stopping, Leif fixed his coldest look at the man. "It means the glue factory. Knackerman. The Great Derby in the Sky. Broken legs on a horse aren't like how it is for you or me; they can't understand why they're in pain, and the leg usually shatters. Strong bones, but brittle. Five thousand years of medicine can't change that."

Wesson actually turned white; sending one rapid glance at the van. "You mean … kill him? You can't do that!"

"Do you think I _want_ to?" Leif roared back. He stopped as soon as Morgan jumped at his side, and continued in a softer voice. "Do you think I want this boy to be destroyed, after what he did?"

Eugene wandered nearby, whining anxiously. Leif reached down to give him a comforting pat. "Look, I'm not a doctor. I won't put him down right now, I'll let the vet be the judge of that, and talk to Earl. It's not my horse. But I won't let any animal in my charge suffer – and you just can't tell him to stop moving for three weeks. It's not like horses can talk."

Distantly, a car door slid open, an irate voice started shouting, then silenced as the door smashed home. Wesson became even paler at the sound, if such a thing was possible. His dark hair stood out in bold relief against his face as if painted. "Do you know what you've done?"

"Told you the truth, that's what. Now if you'll excuse me …"

The sound of galloping hooves caught his attention. When had another horse gotten onto the property? Did the Granger's join up for the makeshift rodeo?

" _Wait!"_ a voice shrilled. " _Don't kill him! Don't!"_

Leif turned. At his side, Wesson transformed a delicate shade of green. The first thing Leif saw was a handsome mixed chestnut and charcoal-black mare, light-frame but robust. The second thing he noticed was the fast action, despite the lack of tack … or rider. Which led to the third thing: There was a woman, well-endowed most would say, yet still athletic, riding well before the saddle.

He blinked. No, the woman wasn't riding _in front_ of the saddle; that would imply she rode behind the neck. This woman had replaced the neck … _was_ the neck. Or rather, she was the horse's head? Half horse, half woman …?

Had he hit his head? This had to be a delusion.

Leif glanced over at Wesson; the man hadn't moved, and stared in the same direction. Hallucinations didn't occur to multiple individuals – at least not the same one to many people. Unless he was hallucinating that Wesson shared the same delusion? "Wesson, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Faint grinding noises emanated from the Asian man's vicinity. Impure anger, mixed with frustration filled the government man's voice. "One of the ambassador's daughters, yes. Why now? Why did she have to …?"

The horse-woman galloped straight for him, haunches clenching almost to the ground as she braked, raven hair flying. Standing upright, Leif could look her straight in the jaw, and was in an excellent position to observe well-defined muscles all along the woman's arms. Whatever she was, she worked out considerably. And he'd been wrong about her being a chestnut – there was a chestnut-colored cloth draping over the entirety of her … equine half. From withers to tail, a chestnut brown fabric covered her midnight body like a well-made horse blanket, but more stylish. Which brought his gaze back to her face, bending down in his direction.

"Please, sir. Don't kill him! He served nobly, in the cause of his master! Such service merits consideration, does it not?"

Leif took a moment. _Gobsmacked_ didn't begin to cover his reaction; _flabbergasted_ might have been a better term. Was this even real? Carefully, he checked his dogs from the corner of his eye; all of them sat in a row, heads pointed at the strange being directly in front of them; _nothing_ fooled a dog's nose.

Just to be certain, he stuck out a hand, inching it forward at glacier velocity. Warmth struck his hand a fraction of an inch from the woman's arm, real heat. It continued farther up the arm, and lower, wherever he shifted his hand. The woman blushed at his actions, in turn causing him to snatch his hand back. More cautiously, he reached up to his own face, vigorously rubbing his eyes, finishing up with a pinch on the back of his hand.

It stung, and the woman-horse hadn't moved. If anything, she seemed amused by his actions. Yes the world appeared to be spinning on its ear, but he'd be _damned_ if it stopped him from doing his duty.

Besides, Morgan was staring past him at the horse-woman with just as much confusion as he. Once more, Leif reached stretched his arm out, and casually backhanded himself across the face. The woman's face swam into view, looking somewhat confused.

Assuming he was _not_ insane, Leif considered what to say.

"Ma'am," he started carefully. "I'm going to call a vet. But if his leg is shattered – he won't have a good chance for survival. I'm sorry ma'am."

The woman gave a choked grunt. "But he can heal! 'Tis only a broken limb, is it not?"

He had to close his eyes at that. Things were spiraling so far out of control, it'd likely be midnight before he could rub down Patches. First things first: get rid of the girl, give Morgan some morphine, tie up its leg, then get back to Patches. Feed the dogs, check the chores – life went on.

"Look miss. I've taken care of horses for twenty five years. I learned from my father, and grandpa before him. We've talked to vets, read books, and _nothing_ gets a horse over a broken leg." He glanced at her equine half out of habit; the leg shape was slightly off compared to a horse – one without a human half. "I won't lie to you: if the vet says it won't work, then it won't work."

The girl – woman – looked as if she were about to burst into tears, but gained control. "Wh – what if he could be healed? If I could guarantee it?"

Leif looked her full in the face, tilting his head back a little to do so. Dark blue eyes, swimming in tears yet unshed, gazed back at him. Turning, he glanced again at Morgan, seeing the horse tremble in pain – every instinct screamed to end the creature's suffering. Yet, the animal had performed admirably. The only sacrifice he'd face was time and pain, and morphine could cure some of that.

"You do that, and I'll give you my word he'll be alive however long it takes."

Brief motion gave him bare warning, but it was information his weary body couldn't take advantage of. Her hug enveloped most of his torso, smashing the lower part of his face into the generously sized soft portions of her tank top, her chin knocking his hat off. Just as abruptly, she let go, nearly spilling Leif to the ground. "Thank you! I promise you won't regret it! Father! _Father_!"

Leif watched her gallop back towards the van, bemusedly staggering to stay on his feet. The Larsen clan, while loyal to a fault, typically did not engage in physical demonstrations. Receiving a hug, from an attractive woman – or at least a very _female_ individual – was disconcerting. Finally regaining his bearings, he looked at Wesson, who had his head buried in both hands. A glimmer of understanding flickered to life, deep in his mind. "Not going to plan?"

The smaller man emitted a deep groan, the same heart-rending noise of grief made by men when faced with imminent failure. Not a minor difference of opinion between a vehicle's fenders, but a career-ending, life threatening catastrophe. Like when an idiot had accidently steered a fully-loaded combine through two fences, a Quonset, and into the small lake. And then tried to sue for unsafe conditions. Without a lawyer.

"Ah."

"Complete secrecy, I have to keep everything in _complete secrecy!"_ the smaller man almost wailed the last two words. "How can I do my job when they don't listen? Five years I've said nothing, done nothing, _written_ nothing, and then she up and blows the whole thing for a horse? Just a dumb _horse_?"

While annoyed at the description, Leif chose to leave Wesson to his own devices, shuddering in a barnyard corner. Tying up Morgan's leg, just high enough so it couldn't be leaned upon took concentration. Setting up the proper morphine dosage for a horse took concentration as well. Too much, and death was the only result; too little, and … well … he could always add more, right?

The medical pack disgorged a clean needle, and the small vial of morphine. It was a highly addictive substance, under federal regulation in every pharmacy in the country. People sometimes called in fake alarms for ambulances to get at the minimal supplies aboard – just enough to dull pain, not enough to actually give anyone larger than a hamster a drugged high. Addicts were addicts though; logic went out the window when hunger controlled the man. Where had he read that?

Leif carefully measured out the prescribed amount, and depressed the plunger, sending the relief into Morgan's upper leg. Arteries carried blood away from the heart, and down towards the affected area. Instantly, Leif could see the results; pain-induced shivers slowed, and the eyes blinked sleepily.

"Oh no you don't," Leif quickly tugged the large horse deeper into the barn. Securing the halter high enough to prevent a reclined resting position, he took the additional step of shoving long planks through the stall's slats under the horse's barrel. Rough, but sufficient to keep the animal upright until the vet … or whatever the horse-woman's medical advisor was … could arrive.

The barnyard was as quiet as a grave when Leif walked back through it. Wesson gabbled into a larger phone-like device, probably updating his superiors. Patches stood patiently near the fence, pulling at the grass sticking through the barbed wire. While relieved of her saddle, traces of white foam still remained flecked about her muzzle and haunches, a fact he intended to remedy.

"Hey girl," the horse's head lifted, ears pricking forwards at his soft call. She waited until he got close enough to rub the skin under her forelock, whickering pleasure. "Let's take care of you now, alright?"

Some water on rags provided a refreshing sensation for Leif, and likely double that for the horse. She gulped at the stream from the hose pointed at her face, clicking her teeth happily. He rubbed her down thoroughly, starting with the hindquarters and working his way up to her face. Dust became mud, and washed off in streams of darkened water, leaving her hide almost sparkling in the sunlight. Fortunately, there was a concrete slab next to the barn, perfect for rinsing off mud clumps, leaving the ground clean. Doing the entire process on ground that turned to mud made the cleaning process self-defeating.

"Okay girl, hooves now. Let me see your feet," Leif carefully examined Patches's feet, prying out any small bits of stone, cleaning it down to the frog. Some horses wouldn't allow their feet to be manhandled, but Patches loved pampering. As always, Leif finished the task with a little oil rubbed into the hardened hoof, giving it a little treatment for her hard work. "There we go, good as new."

Patches shook her mane insistently, nudging his side. While being gentle, the sheer mass difference between the two nearly knocked him over. She repeated the motion, edging him over to where the curry brush stood, hooked on the fence.

Leif had to laugh. "All right girl, all right! You earned it."

He walked over to grab the brush, then paused. On the other side of the fence stood the horse-woman, and a somewhat larger male version. Both watched him silently, a slight smile on the girls' face contrasting with the male's utter lack of expression. Leif paused for a moment, but neither seemed disposed to say anything. For a moment he wished the bullwhip were at his side, not inside the barn. Shrugging away the thought, Leif grabbed the curry brush and walked back to his horse.

Setting back to work, making the hissing noises groomsmen the world over all seemed to know, Leif brushed out the mane first. Some of it lay in tangles, forcing him to go back and take his time. The sensation obviously felt good for the horse; she stood quietly, tail flicking at an errant fly every so often. By the time he finished, brushing out the last strands of her tail, Patches had a relaxed appearance, eyes half-closed in bliss. Chuckling, Leif slapped a fond hand on her flank, getting an irritated snort in return.

"Be with you in a minute folks," Leif put both hands on Patches's bare back, steadied himself for a moment and slipped himself up. Clucking quietly, guiding her solely with light pressure from his knees, they rode to the far side where the pasture gate hung. A moment later, the gate swung shut behind the happy horse, tired enough to enjoy a good roll – spoiling the currying job – but serving to make her life better in a more subtle way. Or … she just wanted a repeat performance … sometimes Leif wondered at her actual intelligence level.

Checking the gate one last time, Leif made his way back across the barnyard. His boots thumped on hard-packed earth, a disconcerting silence after the jingle of rowels for the past few hours. The walk back took only a few minutes, past the open barn doors where Morgan's half-asleep form was clearly visible. Leif stopped in front of the fence, directly before the two human-torsos extending above the grass-lined fence, and tipped his hat. "Ma'am. Sir."

The taller male bowed in return. "Well met, Lord Larsen. You have met my daughter, Roanette, have you not?"

Leif gave a second nod. "She has a good heart. Her love for animals is clear."

"Ah. Indeed." The man twitched a long, brown beard in thought. "I am Caleb Yidderman, of the Centaur Kriegsmann herds. My daughter tells me your horse has a broken leg?"

 _Centaurs, that's the name._ Leif thought to himself. "Aye, it's a bad break I'm afraid. I was going to call a vet from town … but I don't think he can do any good. Your daughter mentioned a healer of some sort?"

Caleb the centaur cast a long glance at his daughter, his long pointed ears sweeping backwards. They flicked forwards again as his focus returned. "Yes, I am a healer. But I would know what bargain you wish to make before we begin."

Leif nodded, understanding. "Our bargain was that if she could get a healer to fix Morgan's leg, I would let him live long enough for the healer to do his work. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Ah. Indeed." Caleb repeated. He cast another long look at his daughter. Her ears lowered at the attention, head bowed to study her hooves – hooves Leif belatedly noticed which were polished and gleaming – and was that _nail polish?_ "I am considered skilled among my people, perhaps the equivalent of one of your veterinarians. But, I can make no guarantees. It may take time; days or weeks."

The conversation seemed to be turning in a familiar direction: payment for labor. Farmers as a species knew the language; often it was the only method available. But what sort of deal would a centaur, transported by federal agents and capable of a doctorate-level education, want? Still, this was familiar language for him. Fantastic though it seemed, bargaining with a horse – or horse-like person. He carefully pushed the thought to one side.

"Truly it was written," Leif tipped his hat back, the better to look into Caleb's face. "'The man is worthy of his hire.' What do you wish in payment?"

Thick, bushy eyebrows went up at his statement. "You are well read, and the animals in your charge respect you. What's more, they _love_ you. Else, why would three dogs protect you at risk of their own lives? Why would your horse exert every mote of effort in your service? You are a good man; in return for this service, I only ask that you hear me out for a greater request."

Foreboding tingled down Leif's spine. He stood, paralyzed by curiosity. Finally, he nodded, feeling oddly formal. "Say on."

"My people are becoming known to the world in the near times. Your land, horse-master, is gentle and rich. When my people become known to the world in truth as well as fact, there will be many that wish to explore the world of Man, to learn more than all the television shows, movies and internet conveniences can give. But not only centaurs will need a place to prepare themselves; the other races have convened, and will need room as well. Lend us your land, so that we may prepare ourselves for existence among your people. Give us the chance we seek."

Leif blinked, time slowing to a crawl. He could see individual hairs floating on the wind of the centaur's hair, blending with the chestnut brown of his beard. Roanette's longer hair caught the wind more easily, blowing dark strands in a wild tangle he knew would require a thorough brushing. Both seemed … desperate. But why? Given the resources they apparently held, open land should have been simple to acquire.

Yet, they hadn't asked for something completely onerous. If Wesson's earlier request was true, they didn't even need a tenth of what he held. They _seemed_ to be good people … but con artists made a living out of deceiving the discerning.

Leif's mind rotated back on itself; they'd asked for the one thing he held most dear. Even Wesson hadn't been quite so bold. And that kind of courage for a simple job potentially taken over by the knackerman? Something wasn't right.

"It strikes me," he observed carefully. "There's plenty of land like mine out there. Bigger ranches, better fields. Earl's spread is pretty close to mine for that matter; and better access too. What do you _really_ want?"

Caleb cocked his head to one side, a single ear raised curiously. "Did not the honorable Mister Wesson inform you? The land is quite beautiful, that is true – although the common nature you reference is not nearly as prevalent as you seem to think. No, the other reason is _you._ "

"Me." The thought, while flattering, hinted at greater depths. Large, evil things lurked where the sun did not shine. "What do you mean, _me_?"

The centaur took a half-step back, looking puzzled. "You know the land, you are kind to your charges. Your family is widespread, connected, and successful, a credit to your intellect and breeding. Your habit of calling upon your parents twice a month is admirable, akin to your donations to the children's education bacchanals."

Leif froze in place. "For someone I've never seen before, you are very well informed."

A smile broke across the centaur's face. "The Cultural Exchange Committee tells me there are many candidates, but I chose only those that would be more compatible with my species; a 'perk' if you will. The Committee has been holding many individuals under surveillance for nearly two years, and your name has risen to the top of three separate Ambassadors. I am merely the first to make contact – unfortunately." His smile turned into a pensive frown. "After Agent Wesson was to have introduced you to the concept, the dryads were to have been your first liminal encounter, then kobolds, and then my own people. We seem to have … how do you say it? 'Jumped the gun'?"

"Surveillance." Leif folded his arms, not hearing half the speech as irritation changed to pure fury. "On _my_ land, in _my_ home. Is that correct?"

His tone made the centaur's head come up, nares flared. "Yes – is there a problem?"

Leif spun away from the quadruped being. "Wesson. _Wesson!_ "

From just around the corner, the dapper little man came into view. A nervous smile played around his face. "Yes, Mister Larsen?"

Leif ignored the soft exclamation behind him, focused as he was. "You've been _watching_ me? Did you bug my home?"

The other man's hands twitched. "Under the authority of the Cultural Exchange, there was a need for optimal selection. Surely you can see the need? This is a completely new situation! Of course we had to evaluate candidates. It would be reprehensible of us to throw an entire race into the fray, without a clue as to whom the caretakers would be!"

Leif shattered a dried clump of dirt under one thick heel; he stomped forwards, smashing another clod underfoot. The bits of earth-shrapnel missed his dogs, whom had sensed their master's mood. They fanned out, following his gaze and beginning to circle, head down, hackles raised. "What's 'reprehensible' is that you had no right to do it in the first place! My home is private property, if you don't have a warrant, no justifiable suspicion, you have absolutely _zero_ rights to my home."

Wesson stiffened. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Mister Larsen. I'm afraid that the abrogation of a few individual –"

Leif imagined grabbing the other man's jacket in both hands, lifting the slight man's entire body upwards. "Start ignoring the individual, and the group does too. What is _needed_ right now, is a little good ol' fashioned thrashing!" One hand balled-up into a fist, his dogs circled closer, teeth bared.

For a moment, he stared into the nearly pupil-less eyes. With great effort, he reined himself in; irony notwithstanding. Slowly, Leif put his fists down, brushing dust off his sleeves with exaggerated care. "But, that's not my place. I think you deserve a clobberin' good enough to put you in the hospital, but I can't do it myself. It wouldn't be right."

He whistled once, sending the dogs back into an innocent-appearing row. "Get your junk out of my house, and I'll call it square. Leave it, and I'll sue you to the highest court in the country."

Wesson stood taller, a dark look coming over his face. "I can sympathize with you, Mister Larsen. But the law is clearly on _my_ side. In accordance to Article Two, Section twenty-nine of the Montana Constitution, 'Private property shall not be taken or damaged for public use without just compensation to the full extent of the loss having been first made to or paid into the court for the owner.'" He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but if you will not see reason, you will be compensated for your property; the Government of the United States is within its rights to require this of you. This is what will happen."

A moment passed, the smaller man glaring harshly. Leif sighed, letting the anger dissipate. A deep bone-chilling emotion filled his heart. "Wish I could say I was surprised, but I'm just disappointed."

After another heartbeat, Wesson turned tail and stalked away. One of the man's hands was already filled with the bulk of what Leif suspected to be a satellite phone, but at that point he didn't care. Leif watched the man go, until lost from sight. Then he turned back to the two centaurs, both watching him, intensity radiating off their every movement.

Leif ignored that and shoved his hand up under his hat, scratching at the itching spot where its brim formerly rested. Cool air brushed against his skin, refreshing despite the situation. He grimaced, turning away from the bright sun. In the distance, he could see the beginnings of the mountain ranges, where Grandfather's Shoulder rested within his lands' borders. However long it remained _his_ land.

"Perhaps my daughter was wrong," the centaur commented quietly. Irritation rested beneath the smooth edge of his words. The woman in question remained quiet, eyes darting between Leif and her father.

Leif snapped his eyes back down, meeting the stone-hard gaze without flinching. "Doesn't matter. What I want to know is pretty simple: _what do you want?"_

Caleb tilted his head, a portion of his emotion still evident. "You still do not know?"

"Not enough. Does it matter now?" Leif took off the hat, slapping its dusty brim against his pants. "Wesson started on some fancy tale, can't get to the point if you nailed him to it with a pound of tacks. Earl didn't know anything; dragged me out here to do a cotton-pickin' _rodeo_ , all to impress a girl he's never met."

He didn't need to look directly at the female centaur to see the blushing red covering her cheeks; apparently the crush hadn't been as one-sided as it could have been. He didn't care. The farm he'd cared for, the family had entrusted in his care, was fading. Far, far faster than even the slow decline it currently occupied. Abruptly, he gave up. There were too many questions unanswered; they wanted his land, and something to do with himself – but he couldn't figure why. Nor did he want to at this point.

"Never mind, not your problem. I gotta git. Nice meeting you folks."

He gave the both of them a courteous nod, but spun away before either could react. The trio of Border collies smoothly fell in step, pushing outwards. It was an old, deeply ingrained trait; the more ground covered, the more angles of attack shared. Passively, it gave the appearance of a scattered group; but it conversely gave a hunting pack far more options. Leif found himself leading them, subconsciously watching their movements out of long years habit. How many times had it saved him from a nasty surprise? Mountain lions frequented the further stretches of his property, growing ever bolder with the shrinking population. Snakes, coyotes, everything that predated on the weak, flourished.

The centaurs remained behind, still as statues, but for the flicking tails, and occasional, small movement. Low voices began to murmur, just before Leif crossed out of hearing, he heard them rumble into discussion.

Passing Wesson, gabbling into his phone, all three dogs became stiff-legged, keeping one eye on the Asian man. It fascinated Leif how the trio would alternate watching the agent and their surroundings. As soon as one looked away, another chose that exact moment to change focus.

"Mister Larsen," the agent clipped his phone shut. "I'm sorry about this, but my hands are tied. If I _don't_ go through, the ramifications –"

Leif studied the horizon, force of habit compelling his attention to the sky. Whatever nattering excuses the man had, there could be much better benefits from ignoring him.

"—and … Mister Larsen, are you listening?"

Leif glanced at the city man, bound by rules, regulations beyond his own ken. "No."

Wesson quick-stepped in front of Leif, forcing him to pay attention. "I'm saying that since there is no alternative, it is in our shared best interests for you to cooperate." He shook his head, shoulders drooping. "Mister Zakapenko's medical bills will be covered by the government of course, plus a stipend for retirement. The horse's value will be returned to Mister Zakapenko, valued by a trader. I'm … sorry. But cooperation is the only way out for both of us."

He briefly considered that; evaluated the potential for extremely violent things to happen. Then compared the potential legal issues. "No."

The agent's face flushed. "You are a petty man, Mister Larsen. I'm not certai—"

"I'm suing." Leif smiled at him, stopping the agent in his tracks. Mentally, he blessed his brother for attending law school. "Of course, I'm suing on the grounds of improper citation; public use is for the _public_ benefit after all. And you need my land within three months? I'm certain the courts will clear it up. Likely, the case will be heard inside of a year. Two if there's nothing more important on the docket. I know the local judge; fair man."

Wesson looked frustrated. "What can you do? Claim I'm bringing fantasy people in?"

"Nope." Leif resumed his walk. "Just need to file. And for damages, of course. Morgan will never be the same again, very valuable horse you endangered there. Not _my_ horse of course, but I'm sure Earl would be willing to let me take the case on his behalf."

"There will be no need for that," a deep voice rumbled.

Leif kept walking. "I have some Native American in my background, although we always just called it Indian blood. Land was granted by treaty back in the 40's. _1840's_. I'm sure there's a few interested folks out there that would take on my view, if only for a little fun."

"I said," Caleb trotted in front, physically blocking their progress with his massive body. "That will not be necessary."

Leif regarded him coolly. "And why is that?"

"Because," the large centaur lowered his head slightly. "We have decided to not accept the Larsen property as embassy grounds."

He stopped in his tracks. All three dogs caught his emotional whiplash immediately, Eugene coming in to stand by his side while the sisters faded back. "What do you mean?"

The centaur looked down, he seemed unaccustomed to apologies. "It is our fault that you have gone through much trouble, for your government to initiate surveillance on your property unasked. There is no reason for you to trust us, and yet we were so eager to gain your services, and access to your property, that we neglected to take the more honorable path: allowing _you_ the decision. Eminent Domain, while a legal recourse, is a way without honor. My people could not dwell on the land forcibly taken from someone like yourself."

Wesson's jaw dropped open. "It's a perfectly legal method."

"Indeed," the centaur agreed. "But unethical. And therefore, will not be used."

"We will heal your horse as agreed," a soft voice added. Roanette trotted forwards. "But I am sorry for causing so much trouble."

"Takes two to tango," Leif said automatically. "Earl always looked before he leaped. Not your fault he can be a boneheaded doggone fool. He knows better."

Caleb's gaze focused on him. "My daughter was right after all, you would make an admirable …." he shook his head. "No matter. While I beseech you to change your mind, I will not condone forced decisions. We will remain in the region for another three days, and then move on."

"Indeed," Roanette blushed slightly. "And … could you give my apologies to Earl? I'm so sorry …."

Leif blinked slowly. He found himself doing that more often, as of late. "Sure. I think. Shouldn't be a problem."

The three others began speaking in low tones, apologetically moving their conversation away. Leif just shook his head, and headed for his truck. It had been a long, _strange_ day. And it wasn't even three in the afternoon.

* * *

 **A/N: The story is more OC than I'd originally intended, but it seems to be flowing alright. Thanks for the reviews!**


	4. Consideration

The pre-dawn light found Leif hard at work. All farmers knew the familiarity of rising before the sun, and not going to sleep until long after its pale twin rose. Such men slept the sleep of the dead whenever possible, fully aware of the next day's tasks. Yet Leif discovered himself incapable of sleeping more than a few hours, even following an exhausting day. The last time he'd worked a rodeo, he'd had trouble waking up after eight full hours, and _that_ hadn't included centaurs, secret government plots, and idiots getting him entangled with their relationship issues.

Memories of his brother's shenanigans were steadfastly repressed. As were any thoughts of having doughnuts for breakfast – not after that rodeo.

Growling to himself, he rose. Work could be done, even if slumber could not. Perhaps a few hours with a book? No, the house needed a little cleaning. A thorough one, not the minor daily touches that kept the chaos at bay.

By sunrise, the house gleamed, dusted from top to bottom. Floors shone a dull reflection, freshly scrubbed. Leif even found himself cleaning windows that he'd washed not two months earlier; keeping his mind busy. _"Chores day anyway,"_ he thought. _"But not normal this way. Could have lost the farm yesterday. This morning? No. Yesterday. But I didn't. Yet."_

He paused, staring out the window. Its transparent nature showed the view his grandparents had enjoyed, decades before his parents had been born. The house stood in hill country, deliberately set below the highest land. Tree belts, planted by earlier generations, kept winds straight off the plains from blasting everything in its path. Stories, often told around the supper table on cold winter nights, passed down the lore of earlier times, from before the trees had grown. Prairie winds had sent snow through yards and pastures, driving snowflakes like miniature shards of steel. Exposed skin became cut, bleeding raw under the force of the gales, and _then_ the blood froze, soon followed by the skin itself.

Leif shook his head, resuming the cleaning, muttering under his breath. "Nothing to do with me. Just keep your nose to the grindstone, get the crop in, watch the heifers." His hands, calloused and hard, paused. " _Maybe_ get a new bookshelf built."

The dogs watched him from the outside, curiosity evident. Every time he approached the door, their ears lifted, waiting for the magic words. Every time however, Leif finished the task and went further into the house, vanishing from sight, and they resumed their watchful stance.

Breakfast took little time; a brief time slot where food transferred from shelf to plate, to stomach. The precise composition eluded his memory, a rarity in his recollection. Eating was a simple pleasure, but any pleasure needed savoring.

Constant thought passed through his mind, a mantra repeating itself over and over again: _"We could have lost it."_

Yet he hadn't. Property that had rested in his hands, entrusted to his care, remained there, through no strength of his own. That rankled.

"Could have pulled the First Nations card," he told a lamp. It stared back at him, blankly accepting anything he said. "Could have gotten it public. Feds have to justify Eminent Domain, kinda hard to do that out here. But they could have."

What sent a shiver down his spine was how _certain_ Wesson had been; no remorse despite his words, an utter lack of respect for property, a man's land. The Larsen home had excelled at independent perseverance, accepting charity from no one and standing on its own two feet, metaphorically speaking; it was plain that protection of that nature was no longer theirs. Centaurs had been the cause threatening it, but they'd also lifted the threat. But Wesson wouldn't forget; he knew that now.

That meant a threat existed. The Larsen lands had weathered Indian attacks, storms, posse actions, and two IRS audits. Outer walls had become inner, as the ranch house was built outwards; deep marks showed where arrows and bullets had once landed. A particularly rich corner of the garden showed where a granary had burned down, following a vicious lightning storm, before the lightning rods had been installed – but someone like Wesson? Options needed to be considered.

No matter how distasteful. A ranch did not survive on comfort, after all.

Finally, he picked up the telephone. The number pad clicked under his fingertips, callouses treating the synthetic material the same as wood or stone. Leif listened to the earpiece, letting it ring once. Twice. Three times.

At long last, a sleep-laden voice responded. _"Yeah? Leif? You know what time it is?"_

"Gustav." Words choked in his throat. How could he tell his brother what had happened? No, it wasn't his fault. "I gotta go. Call the others, conference tonight."

Concern sharpened in the other man's voice. _"You okay? What happened?"_

The worry obvious in Gustav's voice brought a smile to Leif's face. Sometimes, it was nice just to know someone cared. "I'm alright. Place is too. But it was close."

" _Yeah, I get that."_ The voice came back drily. _"Usually you wait until a civilized hour. Like eight."_

Leif took a look outside. The sun stood well over the horizon, a full three fingers above where the land met sky. "It's morning. You know that."

Amused laughter met his ear. _"I was up past three, two kids getting over the flu. First time I've been able to get a full night's rest in a week."_

Leif felt his conscience prickle. "Right. Talk to you tonight then."

Yawning. _"Sure thing. I'll call the others. Say, around seven?"_

"Good." Leif hung up. The entire responsibility of the farm did not rest on his shoulders alone. Fortunately.

* * *

Transit took longer than hoped, but Leif finally arrived at the hospital. The nurse immediately directed him to Earl's room, cautioning at the same time.

Earl looked weaker than Leif had ever seen. Wan complexion combined with a weak wave of one hand, far from the enthusiastic greeting long the man's custom.

"Earl," he kept the thought from his face. "Lying around again. Don't you know how to keep on a job?"

The other man laughed, a sound without spirit. "Larsen, they tell me you called the ambulance. Morgan alright?"

Leif hesitated, a mistake.

The stricken man closed his eyes, pain sharper than any broken bone flashing across his face. "Pity. He was a good horse."

Fighting off an attack of conscience once more, Leif pulled a chair into place. "Still is. Leg is busted up good, but the Doc says he has a shot of recovering."

Light rekindled in his eyes. "Morgan's alive? I figured when I went down, he did too. You sure he's alright?"

"Right as your girl's father can make him," Leif didn't bother hiding a smirk.

Incomprehension shown plainly. "My … girl?"

Leif leaned back in his chair, contemplating the suddenly fascinating patterns in the hospital room. "Hmmm, that one you've been mooning over for a while now. Pretty, sits in a van all the time? Ringing a bell?

Pale skin turned ashen. "Wait … _her?_ "

"Alynette's her name." Leif found himself enjoying the role far too much. Enough to play with the terminology a little. "Cute little filly. Wanted to make sure you knew she was sorry about the whole thing, really likes your horse too. Her sister called their Father over to look after it, once you left. Quite a sawbones, really. Thought Morgan was a goner too."

The happy look in Earl's face faded. "Now I _really_ wish I could stay …."

Leif's eyebrows shot upwards, but he remained silent.

"Yeah, doc's say I'm not going to ride again. Spine damage. Maybe in a few years, but I can't even walk now."

A faint hope diminished, one he'd barely realized was lit. "So, you _won't_ be taking part in their –" he almost said _Exchange_ , but there seemed to be some secrecy involved. Enough to risk an old ranch. Best to play it safe for now. "—little land project."

Earl's shoulders lifted slightly, "Well, maybe I can. But I don't know what as, paper pusher? Secretary? Shoot, I don't know. Just that I can't farm anymore."

Gravity suddenly tugged at Leif's shoulders, hard. Neighbors had reduced in number for years. _Another one, gone._

"There is that one bit of business I asked you about," Earl continued, hesitating. "Have you thought about it?"

His head nodded, despite himself. "You mean, buying your land. Not really. Been a lot going on."

A grimace crossed Earl's face. "Think harder, if you can. My folks want to get rid of the place now, more than ever. I'm holding out on them, give you first option on it. They want to see to some big producer out East, thinks it would be great to have a little hobby farm out in Montana."

Leif's head snapped up. "One of _them_? Out _here?_ "

"That's what I said," Earl winced again. "Sorry to put you on the spot, but I need an answer soon. Do you know if there's a chance …?"

Pounding thoughts rampaged through Leif's mind. The Zakapenko's owned over five thousand acres, half of which adjoined his own property. If he took Earl's offer, it would certainly increase his own holdings, but could he afford it?

"What price range are you thinking?"

The other man looked relieved, as if expecting an outright refusal. "A fair price. I know what the auditors valued it for insurance, but I'm not going to charge maximum market price for a family friend."

"A fair price then." If things could be simple, they could be simple. A nice change.

* * *

Evening brought solace, if not peace outright. The table designed for twelve, sat only one: himself. It was times like now that pulled at the heartstrings. Painfully. Ignoring the emotion as best as he could, Leif set the phone on the side of the table, clicking it over to speakerphone. Then he set out his knives, and the latest wood project, and waited.

The call opened at seven, greetings exchanged between family members that hadn't seen each other in the flesh for some time. Leif waited while they swapped pleasantries. The low tenor of his younger brother, the deep baritone of their father, blended together. On occasion, their mother's warm contralto entered the discussion, interjecting pointedly when necessary, or simply laughing at the stories being told. On occasion, his sister's contralto rose over the din, laughing at something; like old times.

Conference calls were the only way for the Larsen clan to come together any more, in its entirety.

He cleared his throat, catching their collective attention. "Sorry to interrupt, but there is a lot of news we need to go over. Everyone sitting down?"

A chorus of affirmatives, and the expected jibes, confirmed it. Carefully, he began the tale, painting the story with as much attention as the carving taking shape in his hands. The entire tale, of Agent Wesson's arrival, the crops being harvested, barely skirting the … _unique_ nature of Wesson's people. The listening devices yet possibly planted in his home, unless Wesson had sent people in while he was at the hospital visiting Earl; unlikely at best.

"Finally," he took a deep drink from a massive beer stein resting on the table, filled with well water taken from the artesian well near the house. "Earl, the Zakapenko's youngest, broke his back yesterday. Fell off his horse in the middle of a stampede."

Instantly the empty room filled with sympathetic noises. It felt almost like they were in the room with him, at once a comforting and disturbing sensation. It had been some time since the entire family had been together, Thanksgiving if he recalled correctly. Years before. But the thoughts turned back to the conversation.

" _Always said they needed to be careful,"_ his father muttered. _"Still, the Zakapenko's are good neighbors. I'll head over to the hospital, check if his doctors know what they're doing."_

Amid the noise, his sister, made a _tsking_ sound. _"Poor Earl. What did the hospital say, are you covering for him long?"_

A deep breath, exhaled slowly helped Leif organize his thoughts. "Not … exactly. You see, Earl gave me first option on his ranch. His folks want to sell to some dude back East — I'm definitely feeling pressured here, but I don't want the Zakapenko farm to wind up in some fool's hands."

Thoughtful silence met the end of his soliloquy. Undisturbed by the quiet, Leif pushed the stein further from the table's edge and picked up his carving knife. Silence often made for the best communication. It meant thinking, a concept society lacked far too much in his opinion.

" _We trust you Son,"_ his father's voice echoed in the nearly empty room. _"It would give us access to good grazing lands, and the flood plain. Maybe if they change the dam, make it a better water source … not like there's zoning restrictions any more. Not really a residential area in town; what is it, population fifty now? Thirty?"_

" _Indeed,"_ His brother, normally busy at a new law firm, chimed in. _"Sorry I wasn't there to help; sounds like this big mysterious project you were talking about is gaining steam. A lot of the larger firms are getting all excited about some legislation coming through Congress later this year; d'ya mind if I look into things for you? Never know when you might need a few lawyers on your side."_

"Gladly." Leif puffed a short breath on the woodcarving, the shavings fluttering into the lit fireplace. Flames sparked and danced, greedily inhaling the miniature shrapnel. "I have a contract I need you to write up actually. I'll phone you the details later … but if you could send someone out here this week, it would be better, especially if I decide to go for the land too. Say next weekend at the earliest? It might take a while to settle things."

An elated laugh responded. _"I'll send Paul down. He's always ragging on me about the whole 'farm roots' thing."_

Leif lifted the carving, squinting down its top. The prancing figure of a horse could be seen, with imagination, rising from the piece of maple as if struggling for freedom. It felt somewhat like himself, solidly grounded, but gradually changing – if he thought about it. "Why can't you come yourself? You know the place better than any office drone you could send."

The speakerphone gave a static burst; it wasn't the most expensive connection possible. _"Yeah, I wish I could. But if I put my name down, there could be allegations of nepotism. Still could be, but if I have my partner do it, there's less chance of that. Do you know who'll be sending up the paperwork?"_

He shrugged, ignoring the device's blindness to movement. "No clue. Earl wants to get it done immediately, but the feds are sticking their nose into things, and that might gum things up too."

A different voice broke in, deeper and more patient sounding. _"Leif, you haven't said what_ you _want to do. You've manned the ranch for us; let me be clear: you've more than earned the right to keep it."_

His father agreed. _"Erik is right, son. If you want to just drop the whole thing … well … you've done a man's job. None of us would resent you for it. Whatever your decision, we are behind you one hundred percent."_

A minute passed, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Leif's knife edged another curl up and off the carving, paring away extraneous thoughts. Leave the ranch? Where he was raised, given his first lessons, where he'd learned to drive a tractor, train a horse … where death had become a reality? For that matter, where life begun so many times? Just thinking about it sent a panicked sensation through his innards; acid forcing a way through paths it was never meant to travel. With considerable effort, he managed to force it back down.

"I think the question _I_ should be asking," he said quietly, "Is why none of you came back. This farm has been in our family for over five generations now. And none of you – except Dad and Mom – have come back. Why?"

For the first time an uncomfortable silence expanded from the speaker, filling the room. One individual cleared his throat, falling silent once again. Leif made two careful cuts, starting the ripple effect in the wooden creation's mane, considering his next words. Woodcarving took time and patience, qualities that weighed heavily on his hands – two qualities prevalent in his entire family, or so he'd believed. "Then I'll see you all at Christmas. Thank you for your advice."

Tapping the disconnect switch filled the room with a quieter form of silence, more contemplative and yet less alone than when all his siblings were on the same line, that last time. It made one think how life could change, an avalanche towering over every obstacle created, smashing barriers instilled through ages past. Fear coursed through his abdomen like fire, burning a channel that felt aimed at his toes.

The carving thumped against the table, rustling against newspapers he'd placed, ready to catch wooden detritus. One hand rubbed his eyes, wearily pushing at the tiredness there. Eugene, lying next to the fireplace, raised his head and whined softly.

Leif smiled down at the faithful animal. "It's okay, 'gene. Just tired. Been a long day."

Wadding up the newspaper, he threw the combination of paper and wood bits to the crackling fire's boundaries. A cool night like tonight didn't _need_ it, but the visual comfort was more than enough reason. Thoughts ran through his head, racing like thoroughbreds around a track, repeating themselves, sometimes changing mid-stream. What should he do? When had he begun to believe his family had abandoned him? They had, to a certain extent; always apologetically and for good reason, but leaving was leaving. At one time, the supper table would have been half-filled, warm bodies laughing, joking at life and mocking the odds facing them. Now … they were gone. And apparently not interested in coming back.

Leif should have known. He _had_ known. Willful blindness was more effective than the most persuasive of arguments.

He tabled the thought, setting it aside as easily as the ashes fading to white in the fireplace. The rounds needed to be made. Nothing stopped that. Leif pulled on his jacket, while Eugene trotted to his side. Scheherazade and Dunyazade looked up from their place, making no move to follow.

Outside, the horses noticed his presence. One or two trotted over for their obligatory attention, calmly accepting their due. Satisfying them took a few minutes, extended when several more decided to join. He had a nearly a dozen in total, all above-average intelligence, and each seeming to crave personal attention – or at least apples at frequent intervals. The rough sensation of coarse hair under his fingers felt soothing – a unique characteristic Leif had taken advantage of many times in the past.

"What do you think?" His hand rubbed underneath a gelding's mane, sliding across the hide. "Open up the farm? Not sure what you'd think of the new tenants. Some of 'em are pretty … maybe not to a horse?"

The gelding snorted, shaking his head.

"Yeah, not worth thinking about." Leif moved on to an unnamed foal, the daughter of Satellite and Roaming Comet – not his names. "What do you think?"

The filly bumped her nose against his thigh, arching her neck high enough to make it plain she wanted scratches, not dialogue.

"Hah. Keep it simple. Good advice." Leif half-knelt, treating her to a longer bit of attention before moving on. The filly capered along the fence a few yards, before wheeling and bolting back to her mother. Leif watched her go, then turned back to the path.

Gravel clicked underfoot as his chosen path wound to the back, watching the fences for any warning signs. A quarter moon illuminated the scenery in soft pastels, granting the Larsen farm a near mystical feeling. The orchard, a smaller representation of the now gone-to-seed plot deeper in the farmlands heart, loomed in his vision. Reaching out, Leif plucked a fruit from a heavy-laden branch. The spicy smell of apples filled his nose, punctuated by the sweeter essence of pears. Once, there had been far more trees, overfilled by bushels of produce. Once, berry bushes lay in order-filled rows, proffering enough temptation-laden globules to satiate the greediest picker.

" _Not anymore."_ Leif thought dully. Too many years had passed; too many people had left. _"First Dad with his back, then … everyone else. Piotr was gone already, but Erik, Aiden, Gustav, Lina, Marcella … all gone."_

Cattle, on the far side of the orchard fence, shifted slightly at his approach. He wasn't in the normal clothing they'd grown accustomed to seeing; but the sight of Eugene trotting happily at his side reassured them. Dogs may have resembled wolves – and would receive a vicious kick if they got too near the calves – but Eugene, his mate and her sister were well known to them. Common coyotes had attempted time and again to sink their teeth into succulent young veal, but the threatening force of an organized body of half-ton bovines crushed their ambition. Sometimes, more.

"We used to have dairy cattle, Eugene." Leif gestured. Twin barns, black in the night reared their massive rooftops over the far reaches of the acreage. "Down to twenty head at the end. Sold them when Erik left; couldn't handle both the milking and the harvesting … sold the chickens when Aiden went to college. He never came back."

Eugene growled softly in his throat. Confusion held sway in his eyes, but trust as well. His long, furry tail wagged slowly in time to their steps.

"It's not as though they really want the place. Well, Dad does, but he can't. And Mom won't leave him …." Leif considered. "Gustav wanted to come back, making a good living where he is though. But … " his shoulders slumped, embittered at long last. He swept his gaze across the scene, taking in the starlight fields, long-grass blades dimly waving in the wind. Crickets resonated under every bush, trilling their joy to anyone that would listen. "Yeah. Why come back to the farm when you have everything you want two minutes away? All the traffic, people and politics you can stand, a step from your doorway. What am I thinking?"

He became aware of a heavy, warm form pressed against his legs. The Border collie leaned his weight, steering both of them towards the house. It made Leif feel like one of the cattle, pushed towards safety; not a bad analogy after all was said and done.

"Thanks boy," he reached down, rubbing the dog's ears. Letting the canine guide him, he reached the house. The dog nudged him closer to the door, patiently waiting until it opened before firmly pushing Leif into its welcoming light.

Leif dropped an extra serving to the feeding dishes. It had been a long couple of days, and difficult, even for the hard-working dogs. They preferred work over play, watching their charges during freezing cold drizzle instead of frolicking in a warm house. A good day to a Border, involved a healthy ten hours running after recalcitrant beasts followed by a short nap, and another fine time climbing rock-covered, sun blasted, crag-filled mountains before retiring. Perfect for a hard-working rancher, or shepherds watching their flocks.

"A good job we have so much work then, eh?" He gave Eugene a fond pat. The grandfather clock chose that moment to grind into action. Its heavy metal gears clicking into place, releasing the time one thoughtful peal at a time.

Leif waited out the timepiece closing his eyes, the better to hear. In the fireplace, a hidden pocket of sap popped, mesh curtains keeping sparks from flying into the room. Slowly, Leif came to a decision.

"What do you think boy?" he lowered himself to one knee. The dogs ignored his question, content to wolf down food as fast as possible. Relishing every bite seemed impossible, and yet they appeared to enjoy the meal as if it were a steak dinner.

"Yeah," Leif nodded. "That should work. Can't go on this way, but I'm not handing everything over, lock stock and barrel. Maybe ... Ach, good night."

The dogs raised their heads as one, recognizing the familiar words before resuming their repast. He'd let them out in the morning, but they had access to an outdoor pen if they needed a tree. Leif went to bed.

* * *

" _Your land, horse master, is gentle and rich." The centaur's eyes closed in the gloom. "We need room, and a lord we can trust. Not just for our own people, but many others."_

Leif awoke, words running through his restless mind; it sounded differently from what he'd remembered. Dreams had a way of twisting intent, clarifying or obscuring reality. He _never_ dreamed.

Sighing, he flopped back onto the bed in an uncharacteristic display. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

 **A/N: Shorter, but a crucial character development. There will be more liminal species referenced, but not introduced. This is a prelude if you will, and took me about a year to refine concepts and characters. I want to make a second entry, but it will take time (full time student, with two part-time jobs). Any suggestions for species involved on a ranch, or using a ranch as a 'pit stop'?**

 **Review Dude, glad you're enjoying it! Not sure the other ranchers would come out guns blazing, but it would be a bad idea to get on their bad side, to be sure!**


	5. Preparations

The next dawn's sunlight poured over the horizon, drenching the countryside in gold. Intermittent clouds caught the brilliance, merging the brilliant hues into less-vibrant variations of pale silver and amethyst. Chill wind, harbinger of imminent fall weather, carried the sounds of birds on its back, raucous calls of the jays interspersing a constant medley of songbirds.

Leif inhaled, breathing in as much of the clean air as he could. Days like today helped make the world a truly wondrous place. It even helped mitigate the phone call he'd made to an extremely sleepy federal agent – entertaining though that had been.

" _First things first,"_ he turned to the barns. _"Feed and water the horses, then check on the cattle. Then, the East side. Silage should be good this year."_

He was right.

Every farmer had a different formula, enhanced by degrees to their needs. Countryside poor in calcium received enrichment packages loaded with fish bones or soybeans. Alfalfa introduced vitamins otherwise deficient in prairie grass – or the ground up corn stalks commonly discovered in the average farmer's silage pile. He himself used a formula designed to counter the dry reaches far from the rivers and lakes in the East. What grew close to the waters flowing across his property generally came with suitable nutrients, but not everything could be so blessed.

By midmorning, the sun had risen three hands above the horizon. His tractor grumbled more temperamentally than a heifer with her first calf; but it got the job done, and didn't require the fancy hardware newer models were so famous for possessing. With a little elbow grease, he could even make the parts it needed himself. Not as easily as the old International H back by the barn, but possible all the same. Minimal expenditure in _that_ department; everything worked better when the parts were fitted on Ranch property.

The bad side lay in the level of work required. The most modern of hardware practically drove itself through GPS-linked autopilots. Useful, but expensive – and more than a touch unsettling. What if something went wrong? Corn planted in a straight line across the state, or a harvester going through the barn, full tilt? Not good.

The radio set implanted within the cab's forward panels buzzed slightly, then strengthened. It always happened when Leif passed the shadow of old Grandfather. Technically, it was only an outcropping of an actual mountain range, but snow still rested on the peaks, and its bulk rose above the neighboring attempts Nature had made. Leif's attention caught for a moment, studying the lofty heights with interest. Gold had been rumored in the hills, but no one had tried prospecting with any seriousness. Every Larsen child had fantasized of course; striding heroically up the hill, and coming back, pockets laden with gold nuggets. It made for entertaining ventures, but nothing ever came from it.

Clucking to himself, Leif returned his attention to the silage components processing, and the music. It was an old one by Johnny Cash, reciting all the locations the singer had seen. Leif enjoyed the pattering sounds of the lyrics, almost in time with the creaking noise of the venerable tractor. Then, his eyes caught sight of black and white fur, running along the edge of the field. _"Eugene? No. Scheherazade? What could –"_

His gaze rose to the protective treeline surrounding the ranch house, and the flag raised high above their waving tops. Originally planted as a windbreak, the trees also served to block his view of the house whenever visitors came. The dogs knew to fetch him when a stranger stayed in the drive; mail didn't count. How they knew, he had no clue, but when they knew, a scout was sent in his direction within moments.

Avoiding the temptation to simply shut down mid-field, Leif carefully finished the row, which happened to be the last segment of the field, and turned off onto the hard-packed roadway. While only roughly maintained, little traffic passed through. Rain-filled seasons could create deep ruts, but tractors held six foot tires, and could deposit gravel in the worst places. Over time, the roadway could be made passable, after even the heaviest of storms.

Leif took a moment to breathe, inhaling the scent of the fields once more. Earth, crushed and filled with fresh-cut grains filled the air with notes of Autumn, hints of the late summer sun baking it all to a turn. It would be even better in two days when the ripe scent of silage permeated the air; a strong odor, but the smell of survival for his cattle over winter. Pungent though it was, another tool wielded against Nature's harsh laws always had prestige.

The four-wheeler rested just where he'd left it; at the bottom of a small hillock, south of the field. It rumbled to life, shuddering violently as Scheherazade leapt aboard. The shock absorbers would need replacing soon.

Grass blades whipped past Leif, swaying at his passage and the counter-wind preceding him. The combined efforts sent shards of straw, dead leaves, even the occasional insect flying in his wake. He could feel the Border collie press against his back, low and stable on the travel rack. It was far faster on the ATV, but less stable for passengers lacking opposable thumbs.

Minutes later, the ranch house came into view. A now-familiar black van waited near the entrance, Eugene and Dunyazad standing guard near the house's doorway. Agent Wesson kept a respectful distance from both the vehicle and the building, turning an almost relieved expression on Leif when the rancher came into view.

As soon as Leif came into range, the government agent hailed him. "Mister Larsen, it is good to see you!"

Leif waved back, a small gesture that heralded no emotion. The lack of responsiveness didn't appear to deter the smaller man. The massive grin on his face only seemed to grow as Leif stopped the vehicle, then approached on foot. "Thank you for the invitation, it means a great deal to me what you are doing here."

Reserved expression firmly in place, Leif shook the man's hand. "I haven't agreed yet. But I'll hear you out."

Wesson's face fell slightly, then rebounded. "I'm sure we'll convince you. Is there a place we can talk?"

The human-size doorframe of the house loomed on Leif's mind. Mentally, he compared it to the massive stature of the male centaur, then the slightly shorter woman he called a daughter. The metal-shod feet, welcome on the rough roads would damage the wooden floorboards too, not unlike hobnail boots. Problems he hadn't considered before. Requesting the meeting to take place in a barn could be seen as an insult … so then ….

"You alright with meeting in the apple orchard?" Leif nodded at the south. From where he stood, the gnarled branches of the oldest apple tree could be seen, red fruit hanging off the branches, highlighting the dark green leaves. "There's a couple tables there, some shade too. Used to be an old palaver spot, or so my old man told me."

Wesson blinked. "Did you say –"

"Apples?" An excited voice broke through.

The agent gave Leif a look he wasn't sure how to interpret. The large black van's side door slid open, violently clanging against the backstop. A chestnut blur flew out of the vehicle, closely followed by a second blur of pure black, then a pale third flashed out. A larger form – lighter colored – pursued all three of them, at a reduced pace.

"Did you say you have apples?" The lead figure ground to a halt, forelegs stamping eagerly, almost vying for movement once more. Her upper half, a Caucasian human female, seemed almost as eager. "I heard you say it?"

"Miss Yidderman, wasn't it?" Leif took an involuntary step backwards as another female centaur pounded to a halt next to the first. This one had coal black hide, contrasting brilliantly with her pale human half. Dark ears, matching raven black hair pricked forwards at him, twitching sideways as the third centaur trotted up.

Leif gestured at the orchard, "Down yonder ladies. Help yourselves."

A sudden gloom enveloped him, a hot darkness that somehow gave off muffled squealing like excited kittens. It pressed on all sides of his face with a strange firmness, suffocating in intensity until his very ribcage screamed in agony. Not content to merely inhibit breathing, it pushed in harder, pressure mounting higher until all ceased to exist for a brief, glorious moment. Strangely, that moment seemed to stretch into infinity, a _Mobius_ strip recursively looping over itself in jumbled, bumpy motions.

In the next moment, blue sky presented itself above. Minute traces of clouds made their lazy way, stretching their billowing masses in complicated whorls. Leif loved watching the sky when it was like that; visibility that opened the world's roof like a tapestry. The sight comforted him, that there were things even the greatest minds couldn't completely replicate. But … why did he need to watch the sky? What about the guests …?

Wesson's anxious face interposed itself between the splendid sight and his eyes, a poor trade in Leif's opinion. The man's Asian features pinched tight. " – sen, can you hear me?"

Leif considered the question. _Breathing, check. Pain – some._

Years of living on his own made the self-analysis easily accelerated. _Ribs, bruised. Shoulder too, not bad._

"Mister Larsen!" the agent went so far as to reach for Leif's shoulder. A deep, menacing growl forced that idea back into oblivion.

Leif's hand reached over, automatically stroking Eugene's side. The Border collie immediately relaxed, resuming a watchful seated posture. Leif sat up, squinting against the sunlight. The heavy footfalls of a massive beast made their presence known to his kidneys, a sort of sympathetic vibration.

Far above, a russet-brown covered visage hove into view. "I do apologize for my daughters. They have a passion for apples … which you may have noticed. "

"Wha …?" Leif pushed himself upwards into a sitting position. The normally silent grove echoed with laughter and the occasional exclamation drifting on the wind. Voices other than his own, particularly _young_ voices, seemed to attract the interest of the trees. The land itself nearly trembled beneath his palms, surprised at so much activity.

Fingers curled around his shoulder, lifting him to his feet. Their strength accepted no alternative, drawing him inexorably upward. "Are you injured? I was uncertain that human-liminal relations could proceed without injury, but to be proven right so soon?"

Leif stretched his vertebrae, arching his back slightly. While the ribs made their strong opinion about such treatment plain, the pain overall was muted. "Not a problem I reckon. Gotta take it as it happens, and maybe learn how to dodge."

An oversized hand connected with his upper back, cannoning the rancher into the earth once more. "That's the spirit!"

Leif said nothing, and picked himself up again. Eugene, backed now by Scheherazade and Dunyazade, took up position at Leif's side, opposite of the centaur. All three held an identical, disinterested stare, ancestral focus coming to their benefit. The single-minded obsession wolves brought to bear on their prey somehow became concentrated in the Border collie line, emerging on the domestic side as a terrifying sight for prey animals. The method unsettled the most even-tempered of individuals; at their core, _everything_ remembered being prey at some point.

The centaur shifted uncomfortable under their glare.

"Easy, easy …" Leif stretched out a calming hand to his dogs. They quieted once more, earning him another appreciative look from the large being.

Getting to his feet, Leif checked that the younger centaurs remained in the orchard, racing between trees, seizing fruit and consuming it. He hadn't seen such avarice since a pie bake-off at the town fair; although intended to be in fun, small-town politics rendered certain aspects … charged.

A joyful squeal brought a smile to his face, as the shortest managed to haul herself nearly off the ground in pursuit of a particularly tasty specimen.

Gently this time, Caleb's hand touched his shoulder. "It is my observation that things are proceeding apace. Humans and liminals are less … incompatible, than I had anticipated. Please, while they are distracted, would you walk with me?"

Leif inhaled a deep breath. It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, sheer habit invoking itself at the behest of another. But the sweetness of the early fall day, practically smoking with the tang of emotion and spicy-sweet apples changed his mind. Besides; wasn't this the very reason he'd invited the centaur to his home? "Let's walk to the house. Reckon we need to talk."

"Agreed." The massive centaur slowed his pace to match Leif's long-ranging stride. The sound of laughter faded as the distance grew; not quite inaudible, but dying to an ethereal quality. "Lord Larsen, I wish to thank you for opening your home. Nay, not just your home, but your ancestral lands. My people will remember your act of generosity for many generations."

A sigh built itself into Leif's answer. "Just Mister, no Lord, Mister Yidderman. I'm still not sure. But … I'm willing to give you a chance."

The centaur quirked an eyebrow at him. "A chance you say?"

"Aye," the ground sloped upwards to the house, a gentle incline encouraging rainfall to avoid vulnerable foundations. Only fools built in flood plains. "Earl's place will be up for sale soon, and I'm willing to buy. I could sell it to you for the same price, or you could just pull up stakes and head East. Red River Valley is pretty rich, good fields there. But like I said, I'm willing to give you a chance. But I'd like some answers too."

Clopping sounds from the centaur's hooves changed tone as the ground hardened. Leif couldn't see the centaur's face from his angle, but could sense the larger man's thoughtfulness. "What do you wish to know?"

Leif turned, without stopping their progress. "Tell me: _why do you want my land?"_ It came out more as a demand, but more than within reason to his mind.

The centaur heaved a massive exhalation – considering the size and number of lungs involved, a mighty sigh indeed. "While we have already covered this ground, it should be traversed once more. Many were considered, Mister Larsen. You are not the only individual to have been chosen. But you are one of the few I would consider to be highly desirable for our work."

"Which is …?"

Yidderman lifted a shoulder. "You are taking our presence remarkably well, Mister Larsen. Some humans go … mad, at the sight."

"I'll admit," Leif altered his path slightly, leading the small group behind the house. "I considered it. Seeing centaurs, or claiming to see centaurs, is a good way to have yourself locked away. But Agent Wesson sent me some materials, after refusing to answer any questions."

Grimacing, the centaur shook his long hair. "Agent Wesson is in a difficult position. The oaths he swore bind him more thoroughly than chains. If he capitulates to your demands, he risks alienating not just his relationship with you, but the purpose of the entire program. But I am not so constrained."

Shade reached, Leif pulled out a chair for the centaur, then hesitated. Would centaurs take offence at being offered seating arrangements that obviously did not fit?

As if in answer to the unspoken question, Yidderman circled his hindquarters laterally. "I hope you do not mind, but I would prefer to sit on the ground."

"Ah, no." Leif adjusted the chair, seating himself instead. The centaur folded the lower limbs in a fashion he'd never seen a horse manage, sinking to the ground. Even seated, the centaur looked down on him. "You were saying?"

His guest folded his hands. "Indeed. My people require space to adjust, a quality as you mentioned, is common enough. However, there are variables that significantly reduce that number."

"Like what?"

"Proximity to population centers, water, acceptable range for other liminal species," the centaur counted off his fingers. "I doubt you will have many naga on your farm, given the winter strength. However there are many mammalian or avian-base liminals that find this kind of territory quite attractive. In addition to satisfying the dwelling requirements of multiple species, the landowner must fit certain parameters as well."

Leif felt a vague sense of foreboding. "Such as?"

Yidderman held up his fingers again. "Fairly young – in order to keep up with the more energetic liminals, trustworthy enough to not attempt underhanded treatment, intelligent, and perhaps second-most important: have contacts in the rest of humanity."

"Contacts are the second most important? What's the first?" Leif let the idea roll through his mind. Grudgingly, there were points in the centaur's favor – even as a farmer his entire life, he didn't see too many people fitting the restrictions.

The centaur shifted, turning his intelligent, dark eyes on Leif's own. "The land owner must be kind to his animals. Many farmers know how to _handle_ them, but very few are as kind as you have been. You have the contacts throughout your family, the attitude we have sought, and we're frankly running out of time. It has made us somewhat …." he hesitated. "Desperate."

"Desperate." Leif leaned back in his chair, contemplating the problem. "Why so? There's plenty of space, lots of farmers. Maybe Mongolia would be better?"

"Not for proximity to American culture," the centaur shook his head. "In three months, the Interspecies Exchange will be revealing the presence of Liminals to the entire world, ready or not. We must have refuges in place beforehand, places where my kind can prepare themselves in closer contact with humans, or recover in case of," he hesitated once more, "less than optimal circumstances."

Leif thought that point over. Out of habit, he pulled out the pocketknife, flicking the blade open to test its edge. The small pile of larger sticks took the edge, shredding slowly into kindling, perfect for starting fires. _That answers the why, and the when. But I'm missing something, can't know everything of course … but I want to._

"What about schooling? Will you educate your people here, or what?" he asked.

Caleb tilted his head back, eyes closed to the sun. "We seek to build a small number of structures, out of sight of the public. There we shall construct a medical clinic, housing, and supplies storage. Some housing would be required of course, but the bare minimum needed."

Flecks of wood dropped into the tall grass. "Sounds like you want to build a town."

"In essence," the centaur admitted, "It is. The total population would remain below a hundred, but we will need skilled staff in part, and labor. We would not dream of asking you to do so much, and wish to remain as self-sufficient as possible."

Leif paused. "I wondered. What about remuneration?"

Teeth flashed brilliantly. "On _that_ score, you need fear nothing, Lord Larsen. For the usage of your land, and your wisdom in educating our peoples, you will be given a generous compensation. In addition, since the land we occupy would no longer be profitable, we would pay a yearly fee in lieu of the crops that could have been raised. It is considered traditional too, to have other tokens of our appreciation as well, but we can get into that later."

The large face lowered, looking solemn. "It was not in jest when I stated my people would be grateful. A primary goal of this settlement is safety through obscurity; but should anyone attempt to bring harm to this land, we will rain hellfire on their heads. You, as our ally in these matters, would be considered equally under our protection if not more-so."

Leif narrowed his eyes. "Security through obscurity. You know the entire prairie is open for hundreds of miles out here. There's nothing in the way that would stop a helicopter from winging in past Grandfather's Shoulder and starting some trouble."

Caleb grinned back at him. It looked strangely unsettling look, for such an herbivore-based being. "You know little of centaur martial prowess, Lord Larsen. It is a simple matter to keep watches, send patrols, and maintain vigilance o'er our home. We would ask that if you do not allow those learning from you to stay in your abode, that you would permit a security team to reside nearby. So long as friendship lasts, we will not allow harm to come to our benefactors."

Considered from a lawyer's perspective, Leif felt that many of the terms were … limiting. Suspiciously so, especially that qualifier _friendship_. But the flavor of the large centaur rang of an older time, something nearly medieval in nature; more of the _spirit_ than the _letter_ of the law. Promising indeed, enough to make him take that last step. The centaur could fail, after all.

"How long would it take you to pack up for a few days roughing it?" Leif deliberately kept his eyes on the stick slowly shaping into a point.

"Roughing it? Camping?" Caleb's voice gave a hint of confusion.

Leif closed the blade. "Best way I figure I can get to know someone is to see how he works. Tomorrow, I'm headed for the north side. Winter's coming, and I need to make sure the granaries are locked up tight. Gotta move the herds, maybe check on the silage and hay bales out there too, see if the fences need fixin' and all. It's work, but I can't get a better gauge on a man than by watching how he works. If I like what I see, you're in. If not … there's always the Zakapenko place."

The centaur paused in thought, studying the ground beneath his folded knees. For a brief moment, Leif thought he spotted a grin flit around the edges of his mouth, a mere suggestion of teeth no peaceful being should have known. It was gone before it came, likely the product of overactive imagination. "If it were within my power, I would do so, and gladly. Many a year it has been since I have been free to spend time under the skies. But my people need me, more now than before the Exchange began. Even more than when the slave traders plied their craft. May I offer a trusted substitute? That you may judge our worth?"

 _Of course he can't come, he's their boss._ Leif felt like slapping himself. "Fair enough. Have your representative here by late afternoon or evening. We'll ride at dawn."

* * *

Sunset found Leif checking his supplies once more. Normal circumstances dictated minimal equipment, but strangers required an extra bit of care. Rattlesnakes meant anti-venin, barbed wire took pliers.

"Truck won't work," Leif said to himself. There was no sense in potentially offending someone that couldn't sit in the cab. "ATV or horse … better take the horse. That's less space. Should have stockpile out there though."

Eugene, seated next to the barnyard fence, whined agreement. The fluffy, active tail slapped the ground, thumping with an eagerness nothing could hide. Saddlebags meant travel in the farm where everyone could run, and travel meant work.

Sometimes, Leif envied the simple life of a dog.

Leather creaked under his hands, wafting the scent of oiled mustiness. The saddle itself was made of the age-old stuff, but the saddle bags were made of newer materials. Making the color match had been all his brother's doing; a graduation gift of sorts. No one turned down extra carrying capacity, especially when on a long trip.

Patches, lately returned from the Zakapenko land, stood on the other side of the fence. Her ears pricked forwards, curious at his every motion.

"Pup tent," Leif set the package smaller than his leg to one side. "Might need that. Stove?" he paused a moment before shaking his head. "Nah. The Place should be good enough. Few hours ride, not a major hike. Rifle … yeah." The long, deadly shape of a hunter's tool of choice whispered into a scabbard. Leather thongs, fastened by rivets popped into place. "Good. Lessee, got everything I need?"

Materials spread across the fence line. A travel saddle, larger and more comfortable than the pure sports variety rested on the top plank. Saddle bags rested on the ground below it, supplies strewn around in order of importance. Several blankets, rain gear, even small pouches of spices lay ready. Leif gave it a satisfied nod, and began loading the hardware into the saddle bags.

"Excuse me, Mister Larsen."

Leif squinted at Eugene. The dog hadn't moved, other than pricking his ears at the voice; whoever it was held no threat. He turned around. "Yah?"

Agent Wesson stood a half-dozen feet back, looking awkward. "I … wanted to apologize. What you've been through the past few days isn't normal, and I shouldn't have made assumptions. I have also ordered the removal of all surveillance devices from your home. Depending on how my superiors react, they will remain out. If not," a grimace crossed his face. "My orders won't allow me to talk to you about them."

A grin flashed across Leif's face. "Right. Won't ask you about things that don't exist then."

Tiredly, the government man returned the smile. "You're getting the idea. Now, how about your house? What are you going to do for safeguarding it while you are away?"

"Um," Leif glanced at the building. Soft yellow light shone from the two windows still lit. "Close the door?"

Incredulous emotion crossed Wesson's face. "That's it? All your valuables, supplies, food, and you'll 'close the door'?"

Both of the rancher's shoulders lifted. "Only neighbors out here. 'Specially in winter; gets a mite cold."

Something deep within the agent seemed to shudder. If the man had gears, Leif was certain they would have been grinding like a poorly maintained grain truck. "Could I at least leave some people here to watch over the place?" Before Leif could respond, he continued. "What you do not understand is the sheer value of what you are doing. _Assuming_ you agree of course. If I were to allow any damage to come to your place that _I_ could have prevented, it would be perceived as a great insult to both the Exchange and the centaurs. Strong enough to protect their own and all that."

A sense of frustration built over Leif. Every angle felt leveraged, designed to put him off his guard, to convince him. "I'll ask Mister Yidderman if he can spare a few people then. See how they hold up. Should be interesting."

He could feel the resignation emanating from the government man. "Fine. I hope you know what you're doing …."

Leif gave him another grin. "Course. Just headin' out, fix a few fences, check a couple places. Head back. Simple. What could go wrong?"

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading!**


	6. Progress

Once more, dawn broke on the horizon. Leif stretched, working out the kinks of a long, restless night. Normally he slept the slumber only honest men could attain, but not that night. Quiet noises, sleep inducing crickets and owls making their nightly sounds outside his window failed to bring deep sleep. Instead he'd enjoyed dozing off periodically, jumping to alert wakefulness at stray noises. At one point, he'd been certain footsteps had passed his window; with the blind down and the only light source available just before the window, he'd chosen to softly walk to the next room over to get a good look at – nothing.

Yet metal tags on dog collars had jingled too often, making him wonder what kept the dogs awake; no farmer ignored obvious warnings with impunity.

Nonetheless, Leif made his preparations. Breakfast poured into the feed dishes, set outside for the dogs. His own breakfast, the last he'd have in the house for a few days, became somewhat more ornate. Potatoes, diced in melted butter and fried with garlic salt, framed an omelet made of bacon, eggs and cheese. Fruit juice made from concentrate filled a pitcher. Trips to town for resupply occurred once every month; less frequently in winter.

"Have to make another run," he acknowledged to thin air. "Top everything off before snow flies."

The grandfather clock clicked its understanding at him, the steady ratcheting sound as unending as long as he could remember. Next to it, an older radio recited a weather report, predicting heavy rain in the near future – for areas over thirty miles off. Leif nodded at the time, filing the weather report in the back of his mind. "Better make my rounds before Yidderman gets up."

Outside, the sun perched over the horizon. Sunbeams gave an almost spotlight appearance on his barn, highlighting slow-moving figures. Leif paused to enjoy the morning, letting the morning breeze brush his hair more thoroughly than any manmade comb, before settling into a long stride. First the water trough needed checking, then a few days' of grain needed to be measured into the hopper. A farmer on his own had more tricks than a good game of Rook. He had too: nothing less would be successful.

* * *

By the time the sun rose higher, basic necessities had been accomplished. Earl's impromptu rodeo had left the most difficult part of the job easily done; a few bales of hay lay ready for being dumped into the barnyard, where ravenous cattle could reach them. Mineral blocks sat near the water pump, itself primed to refill when the level dropped too far. One thirsty cow could drink over twenty gallons of water, adding a hundred pounds to her weight in the right conditions. A few buckets wouldn't satisfy their thirst.

Rumbling sounds from the gravel road caught Leif's attention. Few traveled that far out, except farmers on their way to town every few hours or so. The mailman had an irregular schedule, but came when roads permitted. This year he'd borrow hardware to make the road smoother, grading its surface in a wide plane. His was the only stopping point for over twenty miles, save for Earl's ranch, and that could change in the near future.

Dust raised by a large vehicle showed first, appearing through a screen of trees. From where the house sat, he could see almost fifteen miles down road to the South, the direction he took when going to town. It was a solid enough byway, officially a 'state road', but more of a private back way to the residents. Every winter a few city-folk would get it into their heads to brave the _great outdoors_ , driving themselves far out of their comfort zone and into the _howling wilderness_.

He had to drag them out of his front yard every so often. Amused at their idiocy.

Leif raised an acknowledging hand as the large black SUV rolled into the drive. While the Zakapenko's had built along the side of a hill, the original Larsen had chosen a flat piece of ground, putting hills to the north. Granaries, two barns and a wide Quonset blocked wind from the west, while tree belts took care of open patches left behind. For a nervous moment, he glanced at the orchard, downhill and south of the house; thankfully, there were no screaming noises or uncertain memory gaps forthcoming. Whether good or bad, Leif was oddly uncertain.

Agent Wesson appeared at the side of the vehicle, walking in the short, clipped stride city folk used. "Mister Larsen! Good morning!"

"Mornin'," Leif tracked the sun's position. Technically, it was still morning, for perhaps another three or four hours. "Ready to ride?"

The agent gestured, his movement hidden from the SUV. Leif obligingly fell in, walking alongside the shorter man. Sounds behind the vehicle started to clank and jingle; Wesson seized Leif's arm, almost pulling him behind a corner of the house. "Mister Larsen, a moment of your time?"

Leif took a measuring glance at the agent's hand, still clenched on his sleeve. "Guess so."

"Good. I need to warn you, and secure a promise from you." Wesson released Leif's arm, starting to wring his hands. "First: do not, I repeat: _do not_ attempt to ride a centaur, especially a centauride. _EVER!_ It could be considered either a severe insult, or a social gesture you couldn't possibly begin to understand. Promise me you won't ever try to ride a centaur!"

"Right, no riding the guests …." Leif wondered how his life had come to the point where such a statement could be made with a straight face.

"Good." Wesson shuffled, raising and lowering his feet in an impromptu dance – if standing in place and looking uneasy counted. "Now the warning. Everyone in the Exchange is going to be watching this operation. I had to out-maneuver the entire American Centaur Division to get this, and they're going to be looking for any excuse, any reason at all to shut us down. Be polite, be friendly, treat them as people. If they want something, if at all possible, give it to them – the United States Government will reimburse the costs. If they want something you can't provide, tell me and I'll see to it you get it. If you need more land, I'll make it happen. Hardware? It will be here within twenty-four hours."

The government man sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I know you don't like me. What you've gone through over the past week is illegal in every country in the world – but it's important for me, and for the centaurs themselves. This is the most delicate stage; if anything goes wrong, the project has a strong risk of failure."

For a moment, Leif seriously considered belting the agent over the head. His thoughts turned, briefly, to the theory on how city life dulled one's common sense. "How many folks could want this, anyway? Can't imagine getting your land taken over is real high on anyone's list."

A vague steam seemed to emanate from Wesson's ears; his hands rose and descended in an ambiguously bird-like flapping motion. "Shhh! Liminals have hearing as keen as a bat's! Do you know exactly _how many_ women grew up wanting horses? Does 'My Little Pony' ring a bell?"

Leif blinked. "Sounds like a low chance contender at the tracks."

"Nghhhh!" Wesson's frustrated expression resembled that of a stunned penguin, what with his sports coat and button-front shirt. "I received this assignment after more work than you can imagine. If this goes wrong, they'll hand it off to some bimbo just because of liminal gender ratios! I worked my butt off for _years_ to get to this point. You. Will. Not. Ruin. This."

Mild wind, unseasonably warm, ruffled the grass in Leif's peripheral. He raised an eyebrow at the agent. "My father, and his father before him, passed down a saying."

Wesson straightened his coat. "And?"

Leif backed away, watching the agent's hands. "If it works, it works. If it don't, try something else."

He turned his back on the government man, not looking at his expression. Leaving the shade, Leif returned to the sunlight, welcoming its heat on his shadow-cooled skin. The sky shone clear and blue, faint ripples of white cirro-stratus cloud formations forming in the western horizon. He stopped, checking its progress; fast-moving banks of that type indicated storms approaching. But a moment's study soon granted relief: it moved like an amiable moose across the sky. Nothing bothered it, but nothing would stop it either.

"Lord Larsen." Caleb's voice broke into his thoughts. "I am pleased to see you once more. Are you prepared for your journey?"

Leif turned his smile on the tall centaur. _"Mister_ Larsen, if you don't mind. We're ready, I reckon. Soon as your man shows up, I'll do a quick check and we can be on our way."

Something about the centaur's smile bothered Leif; it reminded him of a mountain lion a few years earlier, all cunning and hungry. Forcing the comparison out of his mind, he gestured at the barn. "Did you want to see a map first? Might want to know the route before we go. Safety first, of course."

The massive centaur chuckled, a rumbling sound from deep within his chest. "That would be welcome, Lord Larsen. But my representative will be ready in a few moments, I believe I hear her now."

Jingling, the sound of panniers loosely tied came from the far side of the SUV. A moment later, the dark-haired female centaur appeared. Unlike the last time he'd seen her, she wore a long denim overshirt, covering a form-fitting article of clothing good upbringing prevented Leif from examining closely. Panniers, the larger bags normally carried by pack animals, rested across her lower back, straps so loose as to let the metal bits bounce off each other. Shin guards covered her lower limbs, looking uncommonly like leg warmers. Topping of the entire ensemble, a broad cowboy hat rested on her head, just high enough for her ears to extend to the sides.

She smiled at him, brilliant white teeth gleaming. "I am ready, milord. When may we go?"

"Ah." Leif grunted, taken aback. "I assume you have a … chaperone?"

Both ears whipped forward, then back. "Would I _need_ one?"

Was she _blushing?_ Quickly, Leif's eyes turned to the female centaur's – the _centauride's_ – father. A raised eyebrow conveyed his confusion.

The elder returned his look with a graceful nod. "Indeed, this is my chosen representative. Roanette is courageous, as befitting any partner in life whether it be a days journey or a lifelong commitment. She has vowed to stay at your side for the duration of this quest, and will support and protect you in your efforts." Caleb's smile dimmed. "In turn will you, Leif Larsen, promise to guide my daughter Roanette in her efforts? To protect her as well as you may in the unfamiliar trials ahead?"

While oddly phrased, the centaur's words struck a chord with Leif. It reminded him of the old works he'd once read. Almost instinctively, he gave a low nod in return – the closest he could bring himself to a bow. "Roanette will be safe with me. A day out, a day back. Maybe two days there."

A gleam in the elder's eye convinced Leif he'd made a mistake. Exactly what kind, he had no clue, but the rocking motions made by the three-ton SUV suggested it being more important than a little backpacking trip.

"Very good!" Caleb's smile dialed up so bright, it was almost blinding. "Then I grant my blessing for the trail ahead. May the road be smooth, and the way clear."

Roanette gave a low bow – confusing Leif still further – and straightened her light jacket. "Thank you, Father. I will make you proud."

A paternal smile crossed the large being's face. "I know you will, daughter of the wind."

Confused, Leif backed slowly, each movement steady yet sure. The sheer relief in the centauride's voice seemed a bit excessive for a bit of a trail ride. Liminals were far too complicated. The sooner he could get on the trail, the better. Riding made sense; people didn't.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Leif found himself urging Patches through a tough, spindly stand of bushes. She followed his guidance willingly, traversing the cattle path in sure, even strides. Dry earth thudded beneath her hooves, rain-exposed stone clicking against the metal protections on her feet.

Leif inhaled the scent of open prairie, breathing it in as deeply as he could. Grass, tall and free, rippled in rolling waves from the trail's edge to the horizon, unbroken by roads or man-made structures. Preconceptions about a prairie's apparent flatness was a lie; the path wound up and down swells in the land, rounded bulges of the earth lumping themselves together in static tides, immobile since the beginning of time.

"That's thirty thousand acres," he eased his horse to a stop near the crest of the latest hill. Below its height, a relatively flat section spread itself across the next few miles. "Roughly eighteen by twenty-three miles, give or take. That's the limits."

Roanette trotted up to his side, coming to a full stop. "It is a great holding, milord. Your ancestors must have fought like demons to win it."

A small grin played around the edges of Leif's mouth. "Nevermind the 'lord' business. Haven't been any 'lords' in America for over two hundred years." One heel tapped his horse's side, prompting it to rotate against the wind. "See the big hill over there? The one with the trees along the side?"

The centauride matched his position. "Aye milord, 'tis clear."

"Those trees are the old orchard. Ten or twenty acres of fruit trees. Great-grandpa planted it, part of a tree belt. Figured he might as well have something edible as well as useful. Pine along the west and north sides, then nothing but apples, pears and some plum trees. Used to raise berries down there too, but those died in a bad frost 'bout fifteen years ago."

"Apples?" The dark-haired woman's long ears pricked forwards, staring at the dark grove. Her pupils grew noticeably larger, and her flanks quivered. "Perhaps – if it is not too far out of our way of course, but – could we journey there on our way to your goal?"

Leif pretended to study the sun's upward path. It hung just near the midday point; every autumn day bringing the glorious zenith ever-lower. In less than three months, he'd be looking for things to do while the blizzards howled outside. Early harvests were done, the peak season was nearly upon him. Besides, the display Roanette and her sisters had made at the small orchard had been somewhat of a clue ….

"A little out of our way," he conceded reluctantly. A little twitch freed several large, collapsible bags that rested in the top layer. Thick, durable fabric spilled open in multi-bushel quantities. "But, we're almost there. And I just happen to have a few sacks. If you don't mind helping carry, maybe we could gather a bit?"

This time he almost saw her approach. Patches shied away from the sudden movement, but moved too slowly for Leif to avoid another bone-crushing experience. Roanette's hair lashed at exposed skin, and the familiar, firm pressure pushed against his upper chest this time. For a moment, he inhaled a wild scent, like cinnamon and some spice he couldn't identify. Darkness grew over his vision, pressure against his rib cage growing. A brief burst of happy terror sparked the full length of his spine.

The next moment Leif found himself staring aimlessly at the horizon, admiring the skyline. Tiny clouds, scales of vapor, scudded in gleeful abandon. Joyous trails of white traced meandering paths, crisscrossing at odd intervals.

Leif shook his head, and winced. Pain, polite but insistent, made its presence known, originating from his ribs. "Gotta remember to watch out for that." he muttered.

Beneath his legs, Patches rumbled as if in agreement. All three Border collies, scattered across the landscape, were looking at him, heads tilted quizzically.

He gave the same look back. "What?"

They looked away, acting as if nothing had happened.

"You better believe it." Leif reached for the sacks, and felt nothing. Double checking, he discovered all four bags missing. "Where did …?"

Far below, a jubilant cry caught his attention. Matching direction with wind deflection took several seconds, but Leif identified a small dark blur just entering the orchard, among the Goodland variety. As soon as the figure entered the trees, it began darting from tree to tree, white arms blurring as it seized the fruit.

His smile fell. "Oh no. Lady, what are you doing?"

Urging Patches into motion, they cantered downhill towards the orchard. Eugene barked happily, leaping over the tall grass, gaining a higher view every dozen feet. This region grew taller than the more heavily grazed pastures, with good reason. Stalks of grass, ranging from the deep greens of sloughgrass and wildrye to the brighter hues of oatgrass, could touch his elbows, even on horseback. His mare couldn't resist snatching an occasional mouthful, not breaking stride. He kept her on task, but didn't begrudge her the snack. After all, part of the journey's goal was to relax.

"Oy!" he shouted, standing in the stirrups. Far ahead, the figure paused, then swiveled towards him.

Waiting until he was closer, Leif started again. "Lady, don't you know how to pick apples? You don't just tear them off the tree and throw them in the bag."

Roanette's ears lowered. "I'm – sorry?"

He ignored the juice stains around her mouth. "Look, there's more than one way to pick apples. But fruit is alive, it gets hurt. Bump 'em around, and they bruise. One bad apple spoils the entire barrel; ya gotta be careful. Here, let me show you."

Sliding off Patches, he gave the faithful horse an approving pat. The reins he lopped around the saddle horn, to keep off the ground. She would come when he called. There were more than enough windfall apples to keep her entertained.

"Now," Leif walked over to the nearest tree, ripe fruit peeking out from behind leaves. "Grab the apple by the main body, but twist it off. Breaks the stem, leaves the branch intact." The woody stem snapped free with a crack. "Then put it in the bag, all the way down to the bottom; wait until your fingers touch bottom, and then let go."

Roanette hesitantly reached up, rotating her arm as she seized another. Its stem cracked free, but the branch shuddered upwards, shedding more apples to hit the ground in a tiny shower of pale orange fruit. "Oh, I'm sorry!" She stepped carefully, trying to avoid the dropped fruit.

"No worries miss, we can still pick up a few. Put 'em in the eating bag." Leif gathered some of the fallen apples, checking them carefully for blemishes. Taste did not rely on appearance, but worm-ridden apples always held a rotting flavor. "Over twenty acres here, a few hundred trees all told. McIntosh, Lodi, Goodland, a few varieties I don't know what all. Even got a couple family specials." He winked, apparently stunning the centauride for a moment.

Before she could react he returned to the tree, selecting another target. "I haven't been able to give this orchard the care it needs though. Not for almost a decade."

Her coal-black lower half moved into view, denim overshirt brushing back slightly in the breeze. "Why so milord?"

"I'm no lord," he corrected automatically. "That was when we started running low on workers. But that's a story for another time. Right now, we have apples to pick, and another couple miles before too long. Maybe after we fill this bag, we'll head over to get some Carroll's. Pity the McIntosh's won't get ripe for a week or so – might be some early ones though. Can't hurt to check."

Once more the centauride flashed a brilliant smile his way. Leif gave an involuntary smile back, but snagged another branch. Apples might make friends with horses and centaurs, but there was work to be done.

* * *

Laden with over five bushels of apples, the two continued despite Roanette's longing glances back over her shoulder. Leif for his part kept his eyes forward, watching everything. The dogs would scent any threat long before he could see it, but they depended on his knowing how to look; a true partnership meant equal work, if not of the same type.

"There, you can see The Place from here."

Roanette faced forwards, almost tripping over a badger hole. "Whoa, where? Oh that? It is – cute!"

Leif nodded happily. "One of the original Sears models. Time was the Sears-Roebuck company sold catalog houses. Order one, and they'd ship it out to you on the nearest railroad. Take it home, set it up, and there you go."

"Truly?" her ears pricked forwards. "They do not do so now?"

"Nah," Leif twisted, spitting in the tall grass. "Blech. Bug. No, they quit doing that in the fifties. Built 'em to last though."

They remained silent on the approach, she seeming deep in her thoughts while Leif kept an eye out. No vehicles skulked in the old driveway, but that didn't mean squatters _weren't_ present. His rifle rested in the scabbard, but only the signs indicating an utter lack of inhabitation kept it there. A quick whistle sent the dogs careering ahead, bounding across the waving grass, leaping like dolphins over waves of vegetation. They circled, hunting for activity before slowing down to look back.

"Clear," Leif said. Pursing his lips, he whistled once more, sending the dogs into a wild running pack, speeding across the open ground. "Let 'em run for a while. They've got a lot of energy."

At his side, Roanette remained silent. He paid her no mind.

The old house looked as good as he'd remembered, white paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. Gray tiles, beginning to show signs of water damage, held tightly to the roof. He'd need to replace a few before winter came, or put it off until the next summer. It depended on if there were any leaks; a little sealant could put off repairs for a few months. Valuable in harvest season.

"Milord, not that I am not grateful for this opportunity, but – why are you not out gathering your fields?" Roanette's voice snapped Leif out of his musings. "Or perhaps seeing to your herds? This must be an imposition on your time, you rarely come here, I would deem."

Leif gave the centauride a measuring look. He parsed his words carefully, before venturing an answer. "Fields are wet, likely will be for a week. And," he paused again, then looked away. "I reckon, sometimes there are things more important than fields."

Looking away as he was, Leif missed seeing Roanette vainly try to cover a happy blush.

"Right then," Leif swung himself out of the saddle. "I'll just set out Patches, then check the house. Turn on the water, start up the generator. Gustav put up some solar panels, better check if the batteries kept a charge."

The centauride's arm snaked out, intercepting Patches's reins. "Please milord, allow me to care for your steed. It would be no trouble."

It took only a moment for Leif to make a decision. "Reckon so. Paddock's over there," he jerked a thumb behind the house. "Saddle bags go on the fence, make sure she has plenty of water."

"As you say milord." Roanette gave a short bow, and began leading the horse away.

"I'm no lord!" Leif called after her. He gave a frustrated grunt when the centauride ignored him, flipping her long braid back over a shoulder.

He set foot on the timeworn steps, constructs of aged wood that had been old when his parents were young. Even now they held steady under his weight, solid as the oak from which they'd been originally hewn. The door squeaked, but the glass remained clean and unbroken. Inside, the scarred wooden flooring resonated underfoot, clean of the debris normally accumulated by an inhabited dwelling.

"Let's see where …?" Leif considered the bedrooms, two of them on opposite sides of a narrow, short hall. Both held twin-size mattresses on average bed frames; eliciting a frown from the taciturn rancher. "No, won't work. Living room?"

His thick boots stamped on the floorboards, crossing into the main central room. It occupied nearly half of the small building's ground floor, wide windows spreading across most of its length. Through its clear expanse he could see the property's eastern quarter, the flattest portion filled with rich fields and pastures. Grazing cattle were visible, wandering across the somewhat shorter grasslands he'd roamed a thousand times. Seeing it brought good memories, of roast beef and hot apple pies, sunset watches waiting for the nighthawks to start their calls, and star-filled nights.

Leif brought his focus back, scanning the room. A large sofa occupied one wall, the ancient television set squatting a few feet before it. Rugs, old constructs of rags too old for other service, lay rolled up in the corners. They, like the rest of the furniture, were wrapped in plastic. He grunted approval at the lack of rodent teeth marks.

Next, he checked the basement. An old fuse box creaked to life at his touch. The water pump, a major reason why his ancestors had chosen the land, hissed to life. Water flowed upwards, pipes rattling before settling down in a steady rhythm. Leif listened for a moment, then grinned as a startled shriek met his ears.

Moving faster now, he checked the batteries, flipping them on before keying in a diesel engine. Tanks of fuel rested to one side, secured from sparks behind a steel door. "Hot water won't be a problem. Shower might need cleaning, but should be good. At least the bathroom is open enough, maybe."

Returning to the outside, Leif pointedly ignored a soaked Roanette, wet hair dripping down a sodden shirt. If looks could kill, he was certain any impropriety on his part would cause the liminal's superior strength to be exercised in his direction – likely not to his benefit. Back turned, he headed further away, and called over his shoulder. "Everything's started up. I'll check the herd if you want to change. Be back in a couple hours."

Mutterings he couldn't decipher grumbled almost out of hearing, far behind his back. Leif smiled again. Perhaps this would be a good thing after all.

* * *

 **A/N:** Chapter six, up and published! Have to say, I'm tickled pink by the enthusiastic reviews. If you want a response, just shoot me a PM, or log in and I'll send a reply to your review. Usually ... sometimes things get lost in the shuffle. Apologies for that in advance ... or belated if necessary.


	7. Learning

Leif studied his hands. Compared to the supermodels folks in town talked so much about, they were rough, hardened and worn beyond what high society deemed acceptable. Calluses, earned from years of labor, rendered parts nearly immune to pain. No, they would never win honors in expensive circles, but they'd done more than enough to make sure the land respected him. Most celebrities barely knew how food reached their table; some likely considered grocery stores the natural habitat in which to capture the wild tomato can.

 _He_ on the other hand, grew enough durum in one year to feed a large village for two years. His hands fixed the tractor, forged the teeth on harvesters, and grew enough crops to feed his cattle over the harshest of winters.

A dark, furry head shoved itself into Leif's shoulder, reminding him of its presence. He chuckled, tousling the Border collie's ears. Content, the dog resumed its reclined position, ears alert for any noise.

Clopping hoofbeats, a sound once alien to the old home's interior, slowly approached. "Milord? The table is prepared."

That was another significant shift. Leif knew how to cook; he did it well, if only for himself. Having supper cooked _for_ him colored the change in ways he'd not expected.

Rising, he nodded at the raven-haired centauride. "Thanks Miss," he tried to consider what proper terms would serve. "Downright kind of you."

Her head dipped forwards, hair hiding her face, before backing from the doorframe. "'Tis no trouble milord. I hope it is to your liking."

Leif chuckled. "As grandma used to say: 'Any meal you didn't have to cook is a meal worth enjoying.'"

She followed him, rubber-shod hooves clopping dully against the hardwood floor. "She sounds wise."

Cool water, refreshing after the hot day, ran over Leif's hands. It was an old sink, enameled sides chipped in places but as solid as the day it had been installed forty years earlier. A fresh towel, recently aired in the fresh breeze to remove the stiffness of long storage dried his hands with equal efficiency. He paused, looking at the embroidered scene on the towel.

"Milord?" Her tone was high, nervous.

"Nothing," Leif let the towel flop back into place, tiny figures undulating. "My sister made that towel, I just thought it a little odd you chose it."

Roanette hurried forwards. "My apologies! I had no idea, here, I can replace it –"

"Whoa - whoa, hold your horses –" Leif stopped, rethinking the statement. "I mean, it's alright. I haven't seen it in a few years, that's all. Nothing wrong with using it; anything in this house is here to be used."

The centauride relaxed, shoulders falling. "Oh, thank you. I'd thought it cute. Little horsemen riding on a cloth. Is she so talented, your sister?"

"Yeah," Leif found his way to the table. Part of it stood as he remembered, claw feet made of poplar holding the entire assembly around hip height. A stately wooden chair, a relic from his grandfather's woodcarving days, sat at one end of the table, silverware arrayed at its place like a small army made of tiny, silver soldiers. The far side bore little resemblance to his memories. The sleeper-couch he'd last seen against a wall now rested in a new horizontal position extending beneath the table's edge, blankets piled upon its surface in layers. It all looked … alien. Everything made of his belongings, but in strange configurations ….

He remembered himself. "She was always good at crafts. Show her a pattern, and she'd replicate it no problem."

Half-remembered etiquette lessons jabbed at Leif's foremind. How was he supposed to hold the lady's chair out if it weighed fifty pounds? Could he even push both it and the equivalent of three women back in place? "Um, how does this work?"

Roanette came around into view, holding a large platter. "Milord? I had assumed you would sit there, and dine while I fetched the meal?"

Leif could take a hint, if beaten over the head with it. A sofa-sized hint wasn't too hidden at least. Its somewhat hidden nature made him think about storage though; bringing another old tidbit of Old World etiquette to mind. "We're eating together, right?"

The platter landed on the table. Roanette's oddly flushed face looked flustered. "Well, yes. Of course. But only after you have milord. It wouldn't be proper –"

Leif pinched his upper nose, sighing. It appeared he'd have to educate the woman on modern behavior, or at least the behavior expected at a farmer's table. _His_ table. Even if she'd already set up a seat for herself. "Sit down, miss. You've done enough work for now. Relax."

Her ears pricked forwards, just ever so slightly. "Do you truly mean it? To sit at the table with you?"

"Yes." Leif glanced at the table, then back at the kitchen, and started to rise. "Here. I'll help."

"No!" He'd barely taken two steps before her bulk interposed itself between himself and the kitchen. "Please, just sit and I will serve you."

"Okay …." Leif retreated, one step at a time. Out of habit he started chuntering under his breath, then stopped. He had a guest. Some habits would have to change.

The old chair carried Leif's trim build with ease. His grandfather had been a large man, both of frame and appetite. His habits echoed that trait in the ornate carvings scrawling down every available surface like vines, and the truly massive proportions of the chair – three feet across in the seat, and a slat-carved back that bumped against the back of his head.

If memory served, the same back had only reached the original carver's shoulder. A truly big man. By comparison, Leif felt almost dwarfed, like a child sitting in his parent's chair. He frowned inside. Last he'd known, the chair had rested in the guest bedroom, somewhere behind a chest. Now that he thought about it, the table was originally over in the corner, the flatware deep in a closet. Even the lighting had been modified, lamps on tables moved around the room to cast the table as the centerpiece of the entire room. The centauride had been _busy_.

Roanette carefully backed into the room, pivoting to bring a bowl into view. It was one of his largest stainless steel bowls at The Place – nearly two feet across – and was currently holding the shredded remains of three heads of lettuce, if Leif was any judge. She set it on the table, smiled at him, and wheeled back towards the kitchen.

Carefully, Leif leaned a little closer. The bowl was filled with other vegetables as well. Green peppers, sliced tomatoes, cored and quartered apples … in fact, apples made up the bulk of the salad. An anxious feeling began to work its way up Leif's back, observations clicking through his mind. The room practically _sparkled_ it was so clean, the food seemed to have gargantuan proportions in mind.

Roanette trotted into the room once more, this time brandishing a tray covered in loaves of bread. "I found the flour in the cupboard, inside the metal canisters. I hope you don't mind, but I made sourdough; it's my favorite."

"Don't mind." Leif tried to think of something more to say, striving to come up with anything relevant. Anything, other than a blank look. The more creative portions of his brain decided this would be a good moment to take a back seat, and observe exactly how gifted his speech could be without their help – exposing vacuum in their place.

Solitude for months at a time tended to do that.

The centauride smiled nervously and vanished once more, rubber-shod hooves thumping. "Last but not least," she called back. A clatter of flatware emanated from the kitchen, and she backed into view. "Shepard's Pie!"

His second-largest pot shuddered onto the table, a steaming crust emanating wisps of vapor. The tell-tale scent of garlic, butter and enough vegetables to feed a host met his nose. _How did she get into the Entry? There's two ninety-degree turns, down two steps!_

Roanette returned for the last time, arms bare. Exhibiting great care, she approached the pile of cushions and furniture on the far end of the table, lowering her weight as if every minor movement could destroy the furnishings. When it gave no sign of breaking, other than a heavy creaking, she flipped her dark hair away from her face and looked up. "If you are ready milord?"

Wordlessly, Leif bowed his head in thanks, intoning the common table prayer his family had used. Raising his head after, he gestured. "Dig in."

Silverware clicked, making a musical chime whenever striking the flatware. Periodically, the water pump connected to the well groaned to life, appearing to startle the centauride. She glanced at him, taking in his lack of surprise, and calmed down.

He had to admit; the food was delicious. Most city-folk added too much salt, inundating honest taste with its deceptive allure. He, on the other hand, enjoyed how the original flavor could permeate a meal. Uncounted hours had been spent, honing crops with millennia of hard-earned skill, raising crops at a level of efficiency his ancestors would've considered inhuman. Farmers tended each plant, nurturing its growth to the ultimate size and flavor; blasting it with salt and spice insulted the farmer as much as the consumer, not to mention good taste.

Leif snorted. _Good taste. Good one._

"Is everything to your liking, milord?"

Leif glanced up, meeting the blue eyes of an anxious centauride. Mouth full, he just gave a nod, smiling as best as he could.

"I can make something else, if you'd prefer," Roanette continued. White teeth worried at her lower lip. "Perhaps a haggerty? Or maybe –"

"Ma'am," Leif accepted the challenge, swallowing the mouthful, feeling it slide uncomfortably large down his throat. "It's good. Very good."

"Oh." She blinked at him for a moment, then blushed. Again. "I am glad you like it."

Leif went back to eating, focusing on the consumption of food. _Been a while since I didn't have to cook. Nice surprise – no meat though. Lot of cheese, maybe she couldn't find the meat locker?_

The thought rebounded through his mind until driven out by another thought. _Something's missing. But what?_

He pondered the question for a moment. Food lay on the table, unexpected company sat on the other side, with a puzzled expression. The dogs were fed, cattle were in good condition. Water and power were working, nothing had been left out of the refrigerator. Then it hit him. _Music! Forgot to turn on the radio; haven't done that in a while._

"Um, Miss Yidderman?" He looked at the young woman – centauride. Person. "Do you mind if I turn on the radio? I kinda got into the habit, and – "

"Oh, of course not!" Roanette answered immediately. "This is your home, I wouldn't dream of forbidding you _anything_ here."

Leif chose to ignore the implications of her emphasis. He reached out a lanky arm and clicked the ancient radio set on. Vacuum tubes, still intact after long service, hummed, warming up. The set throbbed a grating sound for a few seconds before resolcing the dissonance into a quiet static. A practiced twirl set the channel to the classical station – better than news for digestion. Blood pressure too. "You are my guest, Miss. I think it goes both ways."

Soft strains of an orchestral work floated from the speakers. Leif cocked his head and smiled, satisfied.

Bemused, Roanette canted her own head at a similar angle. "What … is this?"

"Dvorak," Leif closed his eyes, focusing. "New World Symphony. Third movement."

"Oh." The centauride considered the music for a moment. "I mistook it for Rachmaninoff."

Tableware clinked while Leif absorbed the implication. "You had a classical education?"

She snorted, rolling her eyes, the first normal movement he'd seen her perform since they'd first met. "I am a _centaur._ We practically _define_ Classical. Do you recall Chiron, the Teacher of Heroes?"

Leif set down his utensil, thinking back. "Vaguely. Greek mythology, right? A centaur that had something to do with Hercules?"

"Herakles, in the Greek fashion. Hercules was his Roman name," Roanette corrected. "Yes, he is famous for being the teacher of great Heroes like Herakles and Achilles. He was also famed for being one of the few centaurs that were more – civilized."

Something in how she phrased the term sparked a warning flare in Leif's mind. "By 'civilized', how do you mean?"

The raven-haired woman bowed her head. "The males of my species are typically quite brutish. Strength is all that matters to them. Drinking, roughhousing, and – mating."

Leif was glad he'd stopped eating. "I'm sorry, but _mating?_ "

Her ears twitched, flattening against the sides of her head before flicking forwards once more. "Yes. Breeding. Sex. However you wish to put it. They are uncouth about it too, although a few can be charming – a very few."

Silence stretched between the two of them. Apparently, she seemed content waiting for his next move, whatever it would be. He'd seen similar behavior in horses, the way they could stand and watch, more patiently than a mountain of granite – which drew his mind back to the original purpose for her presence.

"You're telling me this for a reason." His hands itched for a knife, the reassurance of a keen blade etching his will on wood.

Her head came up, hair obscuring part of her face. Roanette flipped it out of the way. "Yes. My father is the current Chiron. He is wise, benevolent; everything the standard male of my race is not. When – _if,"_ she corrected herself. " _If_ you should decide in favor of this, you need to know that he is an anomaly among my people. They will not harm you, my father will see to that, but they will not be like him."

Leif blew out a breath through his nose, thinking. After a moment's thought, he shrugged, picking up his fork. "So long as they know where they belong, I'll stay where I belong. Not been the first time there's been a few rough characters on my land. Shoot, I've got wolves coming in from the South, and moose all over the place."

She went still. "It – truly does not bother you?"

A succulent portion of butter-loaded potato made its way onto Leif's fork. "Not pleased, no. Not a deal-breaker either. Dealing with, ah, _liminals_ means a bit 'o compromise." The titbit melted in his mouth; forcing his silence in order to savor the flavor. Deliciousness slid down his throat, after what felt like a small paean of praise was sung by his taste buds. "So, why is your father so different then?"

Raw carrots crunched from the far side of the table, where Roanette had apparently taken advantage of his silence to seize a quick mouthful. She swallowed hard, an audible gulping sound reaching his side of the table. Leif could practically see a bulge descend her long neck. "My father is the _de facto_ Chiron. Every generation there is at least one male centaur that exhibits qualities like the first Chiron. It is a title, you see, not simply a name."

"Caleb Yidderman, current Chiron?" Leif guessed.

"Close," she agreed. "Among my people, he is known simply as 'Chiron,' or perhaps 'Teacher.' As such, he is exempt from challenges, and is required to give his advice for major policy decisions."

Both eyebrows shot upwards. "He is your President? King of the centaurs?"

Roanette shifted on her pile of cushions, brows furrowed. "More like respected elder. Our society is not unified, so there are many factions. The English centaurs have their 'Goddess of the Lance' for primary leadership, and the Chinese revere whom they call the Ancient One. All of them respect Chiron though; all of us can trace our bloodline back to Ancient Greece."

"Good to know."

The centauride studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed, then nodded. "My pleasure, milord."

Leif held back a sigh. The woman truly didn't seem to mean any harm by the phrase. It still made him uncomfortable. But – that lead to another thought. "Where are you from? You speak English well, maybe a touch formal, but you know the culture pretty well for a newcomer. If you are?"

Her ears pricked forwards, a happy look in her eye. "Thank you, you are kind. We originally came from Europe, a handful of tribes further west than most. Father foresaw the Exchange, and made sure his daughters would be well-educated. The female of our species are typically the academic you see."

"Ah." Another buttery bite, this time laden with the essence of sourdough filled the moment of silence. Leif chewed thoughtfully. "Other people know about you then. Centaurs I mean."

She lifted a shoulder expressively. "We have agents that operate for us among the world of Man. Most governments are aware of our existence, at some level at least. The world is far larger than most imagine, and many species have hidden themselves. Centaurs have a more difficult time posing as humans, but it can be done. But we have been sequestered for ages; even the liminals within your own country's borders are ignorant of many things you would consider normal. I am different in that regard."

"Different?" Leif tried to think. "Different how?"

"Well," Roanette nibbled on her lower lip for a moment. "As an example, I know how to operate kitchen appliances. Some like the lamia possess little aptitude in that regard, although they certainly have the instinctive drive. I was taught several languages, since my father did not know precisely which nation would be optimal for our introduction. More than that, I am conversant in most forms of technology. There are species out there incapable of using devices that operate on electricity – they will have trouble adapting."

Leif forced his eyebrows away from their steady ascension. "You are quite gifted. Know anything about farms?"

"Some," the centauride hedged. "Once we became aware that our clan would be travelling to the United States, my sisters and I obtained study materials on the more general aspects."

Leif nodded. "Good thought. You mentioned sisters, I saw the two back there. Are there any more of you?"

A broad smile broke out on Roanette's face; she set down her fork. "Oh indeed! Father is quite popular, the centaurides greatly appreciate his intellect, and love talking with him about everything. They give advice, and he _listens_ to everything they say, something I'm afraid not many males in my race do. He has never needed to seek out companionship, they nearly fight over the chance to be with him! I have nearly seventy-five sisters and half again as many brothers, most live back in southern Germany. Being one of my father's personal family is great protection against – I'm sorry, are you all right?"

Leif pounded his chest, trying to catch his breath. He waved Roanette back, inhaling deeply. "I'm sorry, did you say – seventy-five? Seven five?"

"Yes," Guileless eyes blinked. "Perhaps a hundred and eighty, all told? Of course not all of his wives become pregnant while they are with him, but enough have and we have built a strong herd. I'm not as close to some of my sisters as others, but my closest friends are also my sisters. That's something I love about your home, you have family in every room! Pictures, furniture, towels – it reminds me of my own home."

Leif put his fork down. "I'm going out on a limb here, but your people are – polygamous, then."

She smiled at him. "We prefer to consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement. A shared bloodline, if you will."

A brief headache threatened Leif's temples; he warded it off by promising himself to go to bed as soon as possible. "Ah. Good thought."

* * *

Insisting on helping with the dishes almost made the centauride go into hysterics. _Not_ helping with the dishes would have made Leif have a conniption fit of his own however, which reduced any guilt. In the end, she had accepted a compromise, where he would replace the dishes to their resting place, while she re-packaged the surprisingly few leftovers. Centaurs were capable of ingesting vast quantities of food, apparently. Not a surprise, given their body mass, but the sight of Roanette eating so much, and yet with impeccable manners, amused him.

Something to keep in mind for later.

The shower had enough hot water to clean up the dust and grime of the day. Another ten minutes and it would likely be enough for Roanette as well. _How she'll fit in the tub I don't know. Maybe just a sponge bath or something?_

Leif donned his jeans, toweling off the last beads of moisture from his arms. Towels rose to a high-demand when all of the Larsen clan was present; The Place had enough towels stored away in vacuum-sealed bags for the both of them, but he'd check if the washing machine still worked in the morning. No sense setting things up by hand when a machine could do it.

Putting aside plans, he just settled into the comfortable evening. The plaid flannel shirt he wore on journeys felt comfortable. The tent outside was a bit worn, but matched his clothing for comfort levels. Stooping, he stuffed his feet into the leather moccasins, which would protect his feet in the short walk outside.

Yawning, Leif opened the bathroom door and took one step, and shuddered to a halt.

Ahead, Roanette waited for him. Hooves shifted nervously, hands white-knuckled tight grip on her nightwear. The sight of her nervousness didn't hold him still, it was the state of undress. Sheer, transparent fabric, folded over on itself for a semblance of opaque qualities protected the vital areas, but enough skin was exposed to either prove a new, _massive_ moth problem existed, or a distinct misunderstanding of appropriate cold-weather attire. Lacework somehow figured prominently in the material as well – how, he had no clue. There was barely enough fabric to keep everything closed, let alone have a type definition. The entire ensemble stirred his blood in a way he'd never felt before.

What unnerved him the most though, was how her dark blue eyes were fastened on him, focusing on his damp hair, then flicking away for a brief moment down his front for some reason. Fear, and a strange hunger, warred for prominence in her eyes. Why though?

Ah.

"Miss Yidderman," Leif finally worked out the problem – the sight of such an attractive, well-endowed woman, in such a state of undress no less – had clearly affected his common sense. "Bathroom's yours."

"Actually, milord," the centauride's dark hair fell forwards, drifting to one side across her long ears. "Are you – ready – for bed?"

He blinked. Twice. "Headed there now. Pick any room you want. Sheets in the closet, blankets next to them."

Her movements stuttered, freezing as Leif picked up a flashlight from a sideboard. "My – milord?"

Leif kept his back to the walking lingerie advertisement. It wouldn't do to embarrass a chosen representative of the Centaurs, particularly one as highly regarded as Old Caleb seemed to be. "Tent's good enough for me. Better get some sleep; early morning. Sunrise gettin' later now, but still early."

Not looking back, he missed the shocked look on Roanette's face. Or the shadow of disappointment.

* * *

Darkness covered the sky, wrapped across its expanse. Stars, points of light stabbing the dark velvet appearance, shone down on him like the cheerful countenance of old friends. Clouds, far fewer than what the weather report had indicated, erased part of the scintillating tapestry, blending the starless void with the pure distance.

Leif sat in the door of his tent, enjoying the cool breeze. It felt colder than before, strong encouragement, warning to prepare. Yet frogs still bellowed their challenges at each other, and crickets warbled their nightly chorus. Once in a while, he could even hear nighthawks go past, silent, but for their buzzing call. This far away from population centers, he could even hear the rasp as nightlife dashed through the tall grass, bare hints of dead grass beneath the green spikes compressing under tiny feet.

Peace stretched itself on his shoulders, like a thick blanket in a cold night. For the moment, he wasn't _Milord,_ or the target of some federal agent's self-improvement plan. Chores were done, all work finished. City-folk would find some needful reason to work – but the need to sit down and rest would eventually catch up. Better to acknowledge it from the very beginning, enjoy the break, and get back to it the next day. Long-run, it helped the most.

Lights from The Place, his grandparent's home once-upon-a-time, shone out on the grass. The bathroom's frosted glass dimmed the lighting somewhat, but he was glad of it. Illumination from the living room also turned part of the dark shadows into squares of yellow light. Sometimes a shape would cross the window, odd silhouettes that would have once sent him reaching for his gun. Now though – Leif shook his head.

 _Now I have myths walking around my living room. Doing dishes._

Cold wind swiped his cheek, hitting just where the moisture draining from his damp hair crept. Wait – cold?

 _September. Getting colder. First snowfall soon, end of the month?_ He lifted his face, letting the wind curl around his clean-shaven jaw. _Soon as the ground dries out, have to finish the rest of harvest. Apples will be hard to get this year but …._

Unbidden, Leif's head turned towards the window. The shades were drawn, but the silhouette of a very womanly figure could still be seen. _On the other hand, maybe not._

* * *

 ** _A/N: Thank you for your reviews and comments! This chapter is bit more world-building, one of my favorite hobbies._**

 ** _ReviewDude: I'm working on a sequel to this, but before that is complete, I have a different Musume project in the works. I move slow though, so I estimate maybe 6 months or so, since this work took me roughly a year. Glad you enjoy the story!_**


	8. Conclusions

Hot wind blazed past Leif's ears, heated by the same unadulterated sunlight threatening his face. The harsh light was kept away by the virtue of a wide-brimmed hat, the kind he'd worn since youth, and his father before him. Between his knees, Patches snorted in joy, exulting to let her muscles go all out. Other than the ill-fated experience on his neighbor's ranch, the two seldom had an excuse to do the work for which they'd trained outside of spring and fall. Or so Leif liked to think.

Low to the ground, Eugene kept pace near the running horse. The sheer bliss a working dog could obtain in such a thing was impossible to describe. No one could, without seeing it. The Border collie's tongue hung out, happiness dancing in his eyes whenever Leif looked down. Every so often the dog would leap into the air; a useless action considering the close-grazed nature of the pasture. Yet he did so, accelerating into a sprint each time.

"Whoa now girl, whoa." Leif barely needed to touch the reins before Patches slowed to a trot, then a full halt. She was one of his best work horses; the gift seemed to have been born in her, unlike many other horses he'd worked in the past.

Stragglers were keeping their presence to a minimum today, and for that Leif was grateful. The herd was moving, and moving well. They knew the routine, and could smell the feed let out for them in the next lot. The entire process of _herding_ was unnecessary – a front-loader with some sweet alfalfa would do the trick. Cattle didn't seem to mind the chase though, most appeared to relish the opportunity to run, testing their mettle against his, which lead to questions about their intelligence. Should he put out puzzles, like that zoo did for giraffes? But there were other considerations for now. Like the one closing in from behind.

"My – Milord," Roanette trotted up, gasping for air. Leif tried to ignore what the frenzied need for air did to her tight shirt. "A – hah – question, if I – hah – may?"

"Aright," Leif whistled, directing Eugene at a heifer that seemed to be having second thoughts. The presence of a border collie cured her of those doubts, sending her to rejoin the herd.

Roanette regained her breath. Despite himself, Leif was impressed, considering she'd been running with the herd all morning, and into the afternoon as well. She shook her head, long braid rippling like his bullsnake whip, and turned to face him straight-on. "Why do you need to move the cattle? Is not the pasture large enough for them?"

"Kindof." Leif twisted in the saddle, letting the warm September wind blow past his face. It cooled the sweat building on the back of his neck, a pleasurable sensation. "I need 'em closer to the main house for winter. Pasture should have enough until snow flies, and then I'll feed 'em until spring. Easier to take care of when they're closer."

She nodded, fractionally. "And your stores for them? Where do you get your supplies?"

"Grow it." Leif raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. "Can't buy feed all winter. Waste."

The cattle began moving faster, following a bovine logic that defied mere human comprehension. Leif urged his faithful companions into a trot, keeping pace. At the same time he kept an eye on the ground; badgers dug deep holes, and wide entrances. A single misstep would render disaster to a horse. Which brought his mind back to the events of the past few days. The quarter-horse that had instigated entire paradigms to stand on their collective heads, and strangers to be welcome on his land. Insanity, but not wrong.

He hoped.

"How's Morgan doing?" he asked when the cattle slowed their pace once more.

Roanette drifted closer, cupping a hand against the glare. Dark blue eyes flickered past him, scanning the herd. "Father says he should make a full recovery, although full-speed running should be avoided for the next six months. Hobbles should make that possible, the normal belly-bands my people use would not work for a horse."

He couldn't help glancing at her equine half, noting the differences. Horses would carry more bulk on the same frame, muscle packed in ways her more svelte shape did not. The joints differed as well, more flexible from what he'd seen, both at The Place and their long hours doing field work. He could see that there might need to be some changes at The Place, were she to remain there; doorways would need widening, and a different stairway to the basement put in. The short flight up the front door, combined with an open floor plan just inside had made it possible, but even the tall ceiling had forced the raven-haired woman to duck. How she'd been able to stoop low enough to redo her hair was beyond him, although there was a new toothbrush when he'd stepped inside for a minute – it was plain she'd been able to make use of the room.

The centauride smiled, and Leif suddenly realized he'd been caught staring. Half-guilty, he jerked his head away. Unlike what he'd expected though, Roanette's only reaction was too add a touch more strut to her walk, and another smile. It was confusing, making him feel like he'd been doing something wrong, but not quite – trapped between the urge to blush or smile back – confusing.

Women were confusing.

Break over, Leif tapped Patches with his heels, sending her back into the steady, ground-eating lope that could be kept all day. Roanette stayed at his side, a few steps back, as she had the entire day. Motion focused his thoughts back to the earlier subject. "Good. Earl know?"

Roanette cantered a little closer. "Alynette has been calling him with updates every day, she feels responsible for what happened out there. Also, she is quite – _taken_ with him, especially with how generous he is being."

 _Words hold strange power._ Leif considered. _I could almost_ hear _her blushing._

Aloud, he just hummed agreement. "His cattle need to be checked on. I reckon I'll do that day after tomorrow."

Clumps of sagebrush crackled under hoof, forcing both to concentrate on their bearings before she answered, sharp and concerned. "You have come to a decision then?"

Leif shrugged noncommittally. "Don't see a reason to say no."

For a moment, he thought the centauride was about to rush towards him. Memories of hot darkness exploded to the front of Leif's mind – and strangely, an urge to repeat the experience. Reacting, Leif clucked to Patches, sending her forwards just a touch faster, and incidentally around a patch of prickly pear cacti. Roanette squeaked, an odd sound coming from such a large individual, and was forced to alter course, avoiding the sharp-spined collection of vegetation.

[break]

During the day, Leif kept a close eye on the centauride. Despite his suggestion that the trial period was over, there was no slacking on her part. If anything, she pushed herself harder than before, rushing to finish moving the cattle, then hauling enough fence-posts to encompass a barnyard. Of course, it helped that a stop by the orchard became necessary every few hours – ostensibly so that Leif could evaluate the young and old trees for improvements.

Unofficially of course, he wouldn't say anything. Plants didn't listen, even if corn had ears.

Even then, he watched. She took care of the trees, twisting off the apple at the stem instead of yanking at the branch until the fruit detached. That comforted him no small extent. Caring for the orchard had been his job when very small. Now that he was older, Leif could tell that half the tasks had been minimal, but at a young age, everything seemed important. Trees gave a familiar feeling, old comfort in a way, especially when the flash of ripe fruit peeked through the leaves.

She tended the horses as well, making sure they had water, hauling bales of hay like they were large books.

 _Liminal strength. Good to know._

Leif nodded to himself, it was time to check again for the less obvious traits.

Casually, he glanced at the clouds, small wispy ones, and frowned as if in thought. It wasn't a major expression, but he took care to be within her line of sight, and made sure to repeat the motion several times within fifteen minutes. Roanette didn't seem to notice the action, but within those fifteen minutes, she too was squinting at the sky beneath her broad-brimmed hat. What she saw did not seem to make an impression, but Leif noticed a more regular check of the sky after that. Knowledge about the weather was something that could only be _truly_ tested over a series of weeks or months, insignificant for someone who listened to the weather reports. True mastery would take a lifetime, although he felt he had a good start on it. Besides, freak weather conditions could occur any time – it would be a litmus test whenever it happened, not on a mortal's schedule like _his_.

He added it to the mental list nonetheless.

The herd continued their quickened pace, passing through the gate into the next pasture. Leif listened to the cows grunt approval at the new grass, tall stuff that came up to their shoulders. Their calves rushed to explore – yearlings now. Gone were the gangly miniature cattle, set to gamboling until hunger or fear drove them back to their mothers. Each carried a tag in one ear, identifying their dam and sire – although Leif knew there could be only a few chances at who the sire was.

 _I have nearly seventy-five sisters, and half-again as many brothers._ Roanette's voice ghosted through his memory. For a heartbeat, he could see a dozen fillies – young centaurides, he corrected himself – each with a tag in one ear, frisking about a herd of centaurs. The thought was vaguely disquieting; horses had a gestation period of nearly a year.

 _Roanette looks older than Alynette, so it wasn't all at once._ He wasn't sure why the thought was reassuring. The more cynical side took over, performing mental arithmetic. _But if they're horse-like enough to be in estrus – nine times a year? Maybe twenty mares—ah, women?_

The thought _wasn't_ so reassuring.

 _Am I going to have twenty women in close proximity, on their period, twice a month? Thank God it's not my problem._

He knew it wasn't fair, but a separate housing situation began to look _extremely_ attractive.

"You look deep in thought, milord." Roanette commented.

"Um, yah." Leif swallowed hard. He cast his mind back through topics that had run through his mind the previous night. One in particular stood out, given the more recent thoughts. "Miss Yidderman, your father mentioned, ah, _dryads_. Then – ku-balds?"

A frown creased the skin under her dark bangs. "Kobolds, yes. What did you want to know?"

He shrugged. "All I know about dryads is that they're related to trees somehow? And I don't have a clue on kuh—coh – the other ones. They were supposed to talk to me first?"

Her eyes rolled. "Dryads are closer to humans in appearance, kobolds are a touch further. It was thought that dryads, with their agricultural capabilities, would appeal to a more rural mindset. When I – changed – plans, it was decided we would just go with what was available. As I understand it, the Dryás are somewhat peeved with me. They'd been coaching their ambassador for over a year in First Contact protocols."

That piqued Leif's interest. "You have rules for that sort of thing?"

"Of course!" Roanette's hand came up, ticking off the fingers. "Do Not Be Seen, if seen, contact the closest Operative Network for help. If it's a small enough exposure, they can do a little mindwipe and compensation for the lost memory. Or just let them sit, if they promise to not say anything."

"Mind wipe." Leif's voice was flat.

Shapely shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I've never approved of that myself, most of the humans that interact with liminals are the result of an accidental sightings. Anyway, the rules changed back when most of the governments realized sightings were going up exponentially. I guess it came down to either paying a lot more compensation, or just opening the barn door and doing full disclosure."

Leif grunted, still feeling discomfited.

"For meeting you, the first protocol would have been an introduction to one of the dryads. A lot of them like humans, much better than satyrs," a shudder went down the length of her entire body. "Ugh. One would have offered to work for you, improve your crops and such. If you'd been amenable to a Grove coming, they would have sent perhaps a dozen dryads, and laid groundwork. They would love to work in your orchards, there were a few apple variety dryads interested in coming to the United States."

"That explains dryads," Leif scanned the horizon again. One could not be too careful. "And the – kuh – Coh-dolds?"

"Koe-balds," Roanette corrected again. "Kobolds are less human-looking than dryads, but they're usually judged to be very non-threatening. They're considered 'cute,' at least more-so than my people. They have soft fur, pointed ears, and love to cuddle. Far more so than a large, bulky centauride."

Leif froze; he'd grown up with female relatives. This was a trick situation: agreeing would insult the centauride. Disagreeing would indicate both knowledge he did not possess, and encourage her flirtatious behavior. Insult, or encourage? Doom lay in either choice.

"Sir?" her questioning voice was soft, vulnerable.

Eugene saved him at the last moment, barking at an energetic cow. Leif took advantage of the distraction, riding perhaps a trifle harder than necessary, heading off the troublemaker before she could get too far away. The time needed to ensure she would not flee once more might have been a little longer than absolutely needed, but he justified it to himself. _Can't let her get bad traits now, once a fence-jumper, always a fence-jumper. Then she'd teach her calves, and I'd have to sell them, haul them to town – don't want a mess._

By the time he'd rejoined the centauride, he felt enough time had lapsed. "So, the centaurs would have been next?"

"Oh yes," Roanette nodded, a trifle subdued. He felt bad about that. "We may not be as human-looking as the others, but centaurs are very prominent in most Greco-Roman mythologies. It was felt we would be a good contender for solidifying our presence, not introducing our races. Despite our education, of course."

Leif raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a story back there."

She snorted, a very un-ladylike sound, but perfectly in keeping with her size. "Centaurs have been revered throughout history as teachers, caretakers, protectors. But if it weren't for those _stupid males!_ Damn Pirithous. Him and all his kin."

Leif's other eyebrow felt the situation required emphasis. "I'm … sorry?"

The blush covering Roanette's face would have rivaled the sunset. "Oh! Apologies milord, I shouldn't have – I mean, I've just been frustrated by …."

Leif gave a shrug of his own, incorporating the movement as Patches scrambled over a slope. "No worries. But what's that all about?"

A long sigh emanated from the centauride, starting somewhere around her hind hooves. "Summarized, Greek legends painted centaurs as rapacious monsters, after king Pirithous found himself in an awkward situation during his wedding. Since he was a renowned orator, it was a simple matter to ensnare a young Greek hero, Theseus, to help him drive off a tribe of centaurs. Theseus was rather – simple-minded, and easily convinced. Afterward though, he started thinking about why he'd just killed so many centaurs, and Pirithous came up with the whole cover story. Didn't want to look bad in front of his _in-laws_ now, did he?"

"Guess not," Leif made a note to look up more on the ancient Greeks. "And that means, what? For now I mean."

Roanette reared back, kicking out her front hooves. Leif supposed it to be the equestrian analogue to a human punching a wall. "Pirithous slandered my species to everyone he met. His wife Hippodamia happened to be related to most of the rulers of Greece, and that fat cow repeated everything he said."

Leif blinked, eyebrows finally resuming their resting position. "And what _really_ happened?"

"She was engaged to Pirithous, but tried to elope with one of the centaur guests two nights before the wedding. Hippodamia got, cold feet? Is that how Americans say it? Cold feet at the last moment, and fled. Since Pirithous ran a somewhat questionable side-business of entertainments, and the male centaurs were not thinking, they decided to drown their sorrows in mead and the – entertainments. Pirithous figured out what had happened and was so embarrassed at how close he'd come to losing his future wife, he convinced a visiting dignitary, Theseus, to help. The rest is history."

"So the centaurs …?" He wasn't sure how to phrase the question.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure the males would have raped and pillaged, but this was a _wedding._ Their wives would have been along. That didn't stop them from sampling the _entertainment_ , but they wouldn't have declared outright war all for the sake of a stupid woman that changed her mind. Besides, Pirithous's father was a centaur, they thought it made perfect sense. Then, she changed her mind, Pirithous got embarrassed by his heritage, claimed his father was Zeus in disguise, and tried to commit genocide once again. The cur."

Leif glanced away; he'd never seen the woman in that mood before. Perhaps it would be a good time to change the subject, perhaps that test he'd been considering? "Herd's through. I'll get the gate."

The herd safely in its new pasture, Leif guided their steps back along a route he knew ran beside a field studded with large, flat rocks. Roanette seemed to be cooling down; exercise was a wonderful balm for a hot head. Leif glanced upwards; the noon sun in late August was too hot for reptiles, but once the clock rolled past two – as it did now – rattlesnakes loved to come out. Many times he'd ridden past, seeing long, coiled forms resting atop the stones. Everyone respected them; those that didn't either went to the hospital, or died. Sometimes both.

In minutes, he saw the flat, blank surfaces rearing their bulk from the grass, like stones protruding from an ocean of greenish-yellow. The silence of wind on grass, and a distant jetliner passing miles overhead, were all that could be heard. One or two of the reptiles were visible on the more-distant rocks, but he needed something closer.

Decreasing their pace, Leif drifted a little to one side of the path, searching the ground for that tell-tale sign. A snake could be nigh-invisible, if it wished; but movement betrayed its presence as surely as the rattle on its tail. Large moving animals failed to scare the reptiles, and he was confident in the unique anatomy common to horses for their defense. Pit vipers relied on long fangs making contact with soft flesh – and the legs of a horse contained minimal softness. Snakes tended to inflict a dry bite on massive mammals, and it was difficult for the fangs to achieve penetration on the thin-skinned limbs of the horses; bone rested too close to the surface.

 _Doesn't make them bite proof._ Leif corrected himself. A sick horse out in the middle of nowhere would be _bad._ Maybe it was a bad idea too.

A dangerous-sounding rattle, like fragments of bone in a gourd, ratcheted into life. It didn't snap for attention, or even try overwhelming the senses. It simply existed as it was: a warning.

Roanette shied away from the rattling noise, but also refrained from panicking. "Rattlesnake?" she questioned.

Leif nodded. "Watch your step."

At first, he was amused by how careful the dark-haired centauride selected her path. Then, he felt ashamed; if his own mount were bitten, he'd feel bad, but he'd live. Even if it were a faithful steed like Patches, or one of the dogs that followed him, he'd perhaps be gloomy for a few days, or weeks. But despite her shin armor, if Roanette were bitten she would die. His anti-venin kit would be insufficient given her size, and there wouldn't be enough time to summon aid, not from this far out from civilization. _That_ made Leif's half-thought out plan downright careless. Short-sighted. Risking a life on a whim was _wrong_.

That didn't sit right with him.

The ground rose ahead, rising near the large stream that exited his property. Deep in thought, he reined in Patches, studying the scene. The stream flowed, wide and deep, rushing along with nary a care. Rocks near the banks provided shelter for the smaller life-forms, the deep sections over shoulder depth on a man. Shortnose gar had once lived nearby, but unwise developments by a no-longer neighbor had eradicated that oxbow remnant of earlier eras.

How could Leif be expected to look after a group of sentient beings, if he couldn't control his own plans? Granted, these _liminals_ had minds of their own; no one could definitively command them. Slaves were anathema to him; family had died during the Civil War for that very purpose. Now here he was, a living, breathing, _thinking_ person trying to curry his favor with obsequious behavior, bordering on sycophantic attitude. That couldn't continue.

The centaurs just wanted a place to live. That required he give up land that his family had held for generations.

What did he need the land for, anyway? He had no children. None of his siblings were interested in returning. They _said_ they wanted too, but if it were a high enough priority, they would have returned long before now. And here was an individual willing to prove her sincerity, shouldering the burden of representing an _entire race._ That took courage.

Leif ignored Roanette's hesitant position, standing just to his right. Eugene trotted ahead, sniffing at the scenery while his human pondered.

Logic turned in his mind.

 _Fact_. Her qualifications were sufficient, that was clear. Roanette had brains, perseverance, and the strength to carry them out. She lacked knowledge, but anyone could learn, if they lived long enough, tried hard enough.

 _Also fact_. Caleb Yidderman had some sort of plan going. He represented the centaur race as their king of sorts, which meant his approaching Leif must have been planned six ways from sideways – even if the initial approach were a touch rushed.

 _Variable_. Leif himself didn't use over half of his land. Some by law; preserves that had fallen to his responsibility for curation. Not that they needed much; a few seedlings every year, perhaps a tally in the fall. That agreement kept the land in the family, land that hadn't been touched since the most recent Ice Age. More of his land lay fallow, resting for the next growing season, recharging after a year of supporting intense usage. Fields of grain or orchards took up over a full quarter of his land. The rest provided range for his cattle, sometimes not, just keeping the area around his home clear.

He nodded to himself, a slow realization. If he didn't do anything, what would the land do? It was designed to be used. Cared, and valued, but used.

"It's beautiful."

Leif glanced up. Roanette was gazing over the hillside, looking over the stream and ignoring him entirely. Even her ears were pointed forwards, flicking at each ripple of the wind.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deep. Wild grasses gave their dry scent, leavened by the faint odor of the stream's cold depths. _That's … that's it. What I needed._

"I can see why you love it so," her sable hair, bound into an appropriate pony tail, brushed across her back. "The land respects you."

Leif tore his gaze away. She may have been pretty, but it wasn't his place, or his time. There was plenty of other work to do, rather than stand around staring. "It's been good to me. To my family."

Her graceful neck bent, allowing her face to focus on him, before turning back to the scene. "Your family truly has been blessed, Lord Larsen."

A heavy weight from the past few days seemed to rise from his shoulders. Such a ponderous thing, despite his family's support. Lightheaded, Leif almost giggled before stopping himself; what would happen now? No one had done what he was about to do. Nothing in his entire family history as far back as any could tell gave a hint about the future. Thinking about that, Leif closed his eyes once more, listening to the birds and feeling the chill breeze on his cheek.

Chill breeze?

Leif's eyes snapped open, studying the sky. Nothing had changed, but the wind had become – colder. Less forgiving. It was mid-September, the time of change. He'd spent more than enough time making decisions.

"Well, guess that's that," he muttered.

Roanette paused, looking at Leif as he guided Patches back towards The Place. "Sir?"

Leif felt the giddy sensation once more, like dropping a stack of bales after a long day, but fought it down. "Let's head back. Work to do."

She followed, unquestioningly.

* * *

Paper rustled in Leif's hands. Multi-colored tracts of land spread across its surface, frequent pencil marks dividing sections into quadrants. He could trace his family's history through the map – from the long border to the north remaining from where the original claim started, to a slightly angled turn along the same line. That angle showed where the Larsen's had once purchased a neighbor's land. Waving lines to the west depicted where a river established their furthest border, no longer the case when the next bill of sale went through.

Finished studying, Leif took a clean sheet of paper, and began to write. Cursive, not taught in public schools any more, had been a family habit. 'Elegance in the rough,' his mother had called it. It bespoke upraising, out in the wilderness. Patience, a necessary virtue, was exercised by the practice – and thus met approval from his father as well. The end result was an excellent script an acquaintance had deemed 'something out of a movie.' What that meant, he had no idea, but likely positive things.

For over an hour he wrote, thrice tearing the paper in half and starting over once more. Official documents needed to be perfect if possible.

Hoofsteps clopped in the main living room; Roanette busying herself while Leif worked. For a moment he paused to smile at the sound. It felt – nice. Yes, _nice_ to have someone around. He'd grown used to her presence in an amazingly short amount of time; she would be missed once the paperwork was filed.

But, that wouldn't help if his papers were not written correctly. Having a brother in the legal profession provided insight to _that._ So he continued, checking the reference books stashed in the Place ever since his brother had been taking a break before the Bar exam. Now they served another master, providing templates for land-lease agreements. Their terminology felt archaic, but precise; a language from a bygone era when a man's word meant just as much, if not more, than a bit of paper.

Another span of time propelled beyond his consciousness without the grandfather clock giving notice to the hours. Outside, the sun fell, its gradual decline rendering visibility the day into its nocturnal coloration. Nighthawks, their buzzing cry leaping down the open skies. Weather had happened once again, proving itself untamable to mere instruments – and the clear skies promised another day of the same, if not two.

He frowned at the square patch of sky, briefly interrupting himself. Were enough time available, he could clear at least a hundred and fifty acres; perhaps more if the right head were applied. A stripper would enhance carrying capacity but a draper would help the forward motion. If he could hire some help from town, it could cut down the work by an exponential factor – but everyone else would be minding their farms. It had been a good year. He'd have to check the price of wheat; custom combining averaged fifteen dollars an acre, and if he were to reach twenty per acre, the cost would be prohibitive.

But that would be enough for another night's sleep. He'd decide in the morning, after working out the details in water rights. That took nearly as much space as the field privileges. Which had just taken a few hours alone. But at least he had a template now; that had taken the most work.

By the time the stars were visible, Leif had finally finished, and stretched. Vertebrae popped as a noisy yawn stretched his head back.

Rising, Leif cast a last glance over the map. Its multihued pages stared back, measuring his worth as certain as the next winter. The large creases eased shut as he folded them, the map itself collapsing to a manageable set less than ten inches long. It joined the other documents, belted within a briefcase his brother had also left behind after law school. Once, The Place had been a studying ground for several of his brothers. He could remember winters of debate, long periods of amused discussion dissecting problems politicians found difficult – officials needed to get out into the countryside. Survival had a way of shrinking the complex into manageable chunks.

The case snapped shut, its resounding click far louder than it should have been.

Leif took one last moment to relax, inhaling the mildly dusty scent of the infrequently used room. Wool, timeless element of his youth, cast its own smell throughout the room. Once, there had been sheep. Montana was renowned for sheep ranches, and the Larsen holdings had once held its share. That had been a generation ago; the last wool had been sheared before Leif had been born. He still had a good supply of woolen accoutrements though. It would be useful, or his name wasn't Leif Larsen.

His sock-covered feet slid across smooth boards, barely making a whisper. A large bulky object rested on the couch in the main room; Roannette, resting after the day's labors. Leif stopped, afraid his motions would awaken her – but the centauride slept on.

The table was bare, save for a covered plate, and a folded square sheet of paper. On silent feet, Leif moved to the window where the bright gibbous moon cast enough light to read by. The sheet made a crinkled in his hands, unfolding to show elegant handwriting.

 _Lord Larsen,_

 _I just wanted to thank you for giving me a chance. Your kindness is not what my people have expected, all the stories we have heard were not encouraging. If there is_ _anything_ _I can do to thank you for this, please tell me._

 _You are working in the study, I apologize for invading your privacy, but supper was getting cold. I left a plate for you on the table. Enjoy!_

 _Gratefully yours,_

 _Roanette G. Yidderman_

A long moment hovered around Leif's shoulders, time itself balancing on a knife's edge. Starlight shimmered overhead, visible through the sheer fabric drifting before the windows, casting shadows on his lean face.

The ghost of a smile finally appeared on Leif's face. He cast a last lingering look in the sleeping form's direction, then took the covered plate back out to his tent.

* * *

 **A/N: Epilogue coming up soon. This concludes the tale I started writing a bit over a year ago. I plan on writing a sequel, and have the first chapter complete, but it will take time. I also have another Monster Musume story in the works (6 chapters in) which will be released prior to that, but only after I'm satisfied with its quality.  
**  
 **Thank you all for your kind attention and generous reviews!**


	9. Epilogue

Leif smiled at the cameras the small crowd brought out to record the event. His family stood to one side, a united front supporting him despite misgivings he knew they felt. There was no need to seek out the signs, strained smiles, a nervous twitch under his mother's eye. Their concerns were his, after all.

On the other side stood Yidderman, literally standing head and shoulders above the security detail Wesson's group had provided. The centaur's daughters stood at his side, Alynette and Sophette bearing formal garb, what looked to be German-make side arms holstered at their sides. Leif felt a little surprised at that; did not the centaurs carry bows? Chiron had been famous for his archery skills – but if they knew how to operate modern technology, why would he be surprised at modernized combat skills?

Unlike her sisters, Roanette stood nearby, the representative for her people. In the background, Leif could make out the presence of more liminals, beings he had not yet fully seen before. A humanoid dog – _kobold_ – stood in full regalia, tail wagging from beneath her skirt, whilst a diminutive young woman with green hair nodded every few moments. _Dryads_ they called themselves, Leif remembered. There were more, a massive female – something, larger than his home's doorway could permit stood with them, as well as an assortment of furred, scaled and smooth-skinned people that couldn't stop talking and laughing.

Leif had to turn away, letting the wind spill across his face. The hum of their chatter grew no less, but familiar sights helped calm his mind.

A hand touched his shoulder.

"Milord," Roanette bent slightly, the better to speak quietly near his ear. "I apologize for the crowd."

He managed a half-smile, tapping her fingers with his own. "Cost of doing business."

The warm hand fell away as Wesson stepped forwards, teeth gleaming in the sun-filled day. "Gentlemen, ladies, thank you. We're almost ready, if Mister Larsen would kindly step behind the table with Miss Yidderman? Yes, thank you. Very good. A few moments, let the photographers take a few shots. Good. Now, Miss Aldottir? If you would be so kind –"

Leif felt an urge to run. On his land, there would be no stopping _him_. Folks thought the area where that explorer Steven Foster vanished was difficult; they'd never tried finding someone in what the deadly terrain Montana could offer.

A comforting presence moved beside him. Without touching, Roanette shifted closer, blocking the sight of the crowd on his right side.

Below the tablecloth, Leif allowed himself one grateful touch, fingers stroking a brief acknowledgement of his thanks on her forelimb. With his attention turned forwards, maintaining an even expression, he failed to notice the pleased look on her face, if only for a moment.

Another liminal, the kobold, came in on Leif's left, smiling and waving at the photographers. One large hand nearly swiped Leif's hair, before she noticed. "Sorry fella, a bit excited here. Isn't this great? We're going to finally do it! Thank you sooo much for helping us out here, I didn't want to build a whole new city block out in Las Vegas, they're crazy out there!"

He blinked in response. The next best offer came from Nevada? Big money out there meant banks and casinos – and Leif could only imagine the trades required from 'Sin City'. All of a sudden, he felt a mild surge of happiness at his decision.

"Thank you, yes. And now in the back, good. Do we have the neko representative? Good? Thank you Miss Chievious, you may put down the harpy representative now. Miss Chauin, please do not move. Just look this way, and everyone: big smile please!"

After what felt like hours, the paper-covered table finally became the center of attention. An ornate pen was pushed into Leif's hand, made of fancy material covered in gold filigree, and covered by enough patriotic symbols to decorate a Veteran's Day parade. The pen scarce had time to finish making the third letter in his name before it was snatched away by Wesson's deft fingers, an identical writing implement handed back in an eyeblink.

Fighting back the urge to roll his eyes, Leif continued writing, receiving a new pen every few letters. Then it was the representatives turn, brushing close, adding their own signatures to the paper. By the time the last graceful line – or scrawl in the case of the harpy – began to dry, nearly two dozen pens rested in Wesson's pockets, mere fractions of their reservoirs used.

"Excellent! Thank you everyone! Please, would you shake hands for the cameras? This is a historic moment!" Wesson seemed to be everywhere at once, directing new angles, heading off an overzealous reporter, resembling nothing more than a human sheepdog, in Leif's opinion.

Practice from deals made face-to-face kept a pleasant look on Leif's face. Each liminal seemed enthusiastic, seizing his appendage and shaking it with nigh fervent intensity. Even the harpy shook – wings? Hands? – Leif filed the thought under future questions, then noted her wing structure. It clicked; there had been an oversized avian flying overhead at his friend's ranch. Liminals really _were_ everywhere.

Another hand shook his; soft and yielding, but cables of hardened steel sliding beneath the skin. Leif kept his eyes up, focused on the snake-woman's slit-pupils while she gave a low bow. The cut on her blouse would have made anyone blush; the saucy wink she gave him gave the impression of playfulness. Good. Nothing serious.

"Milord." Roanette gracefully bowed her head, a firm grip holding his hand for a moment. As the last representative, she held on a few moments longer for the cameras, flashing a brilliant smile. The smile remained even as the other representatives began their departure, returning to the large vehicles that had brought them. "Well done."

Leif exhaled, shoulders clad in tailored finery slumping. "You don't have to say that you know. I'm nobody's _lord_ , Roanette. Just a farmer. Just … Leif. Especially since you'll be around a lot these days, if your old man's right."

A pensive look crossed her face as the last dignitary filed past, a cat-eared individual with bright eyes and long tail, following the others into a series of large black vans. The massive vehicles stood out against the autumn-set countryside; pure black against the fading glory of browns and gold. Doors slammed, powerful engines throbbing to life. The sound alone inspired respect – unless the listener heard tractors boom awake on a regular basis.

Roanette remained at his side, facing the same direction, silent.

"Well bro, you did it." A tall man, over six feet but rail thin approached. "Nice job with the – liminals, did you call them?"

"Erik," Leif relaxed. "Seemed to be a good thing. Roanette, this is my brother Erik. Erik, Roanette Yidderman."

"A pleasure," his brother shook hands with the sable-haired centauride. "I guess you'll be one of the first tenants?"

Roanette blushed. "Well, I –"

"Leif!"

Leif turned back. His father, supported on each side by cane and wife, powered over the ground like a threshing machine. His taciturn nature carried through, saying nothing in front of relative strangers. But he radiated understanding to Leif's eyes; everything needing to be said rested in the eyes. Pride, glinting like a lighthouse over deep oceans of hard-won wisdom.

Wordless, Leif shook his father's hand. A wealth of information passed through the simple act. Approval, in the firm grip accompanied by the slow double shake. Concern was present as well, evident in the long moment before letting go.

"Bit o' responsibility you're taking," he rumbled. Years of work piled depth on his voice, but showed no evidence in the keen glance aimed at the centauride standing nearby. "Hope you have a little help?"

"Lord and Lady Larsen," Roanette spoke up. "I and my family will be granting as much aid as we may."

Leif's mind took an aborted leap, failing as the full power of his father's attention fell on the young woman. "Never mind that _Lord_ stuff. You are Miss Yidderman, yes? Oldest daughter from your family?"

"Partially correct," Roanette somehow missed seeing Leif's warning glance. "My elder sisters are already married back home, save Alynette over there. The three of us came in order to better learn, and have the greatest aptitude for the Exchange goals."

"Ah." Comprehension, curiosity, and an underlying level of appreciation filled the single utterance. A small jerk of the head included the centauride and her family, standing further back. "Why don't you and your crew come in for a talk? We don't get up here much these days, but we could talk things over. See what help we could give."

Enthusiasm almost crackled as Roanette beamed a wide smile. "Of course! I will summon my father, he would love to speak with you and Master Leif!"

Leif opened his mouth to speak, but the attractive centauride had already crossed half the distance between themselves and her father. Sighing, he shook his head, a touch of fondness in the motion.

Gustav, his eldest brother raised an eyebrow at him. _Master?_ His lips moved without making a sound.

Leif turned his gaze skyward, searching the light blue skies for guidance. The harpy darted overhead, being chased by the same hawk he'd noticed earlier. One messed with the Ferruginous at their own peril. Turning his eyes to the hills, he could see a slow train of construction vehicles inching towards the agreed site, tiny billows of smoke staining the clean sky. Down by the orchard, he could hear more representatives exclaiming over the fruit – there had been a standing invitation that he might regret soon. Finally, he looked back at his brother. There was only one answer possible.

"It's a long story."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you all for your kind attention. This has been a delight to write, and I am glad so many of you have enjoyed it! While I have a sequel in the works, I'm currently writing a different Musume work, set in Japan. This leads me to a question: are there any reference materials for popular foods, common surprises, or differences? I am aware of the Tokyo McDonald's menu, the Japanese penchant against facial hair, and a few other things, but my research needs more data.**

 **A big thank you to silverbug28, whom was kind enough to look over my work. Please check out his own Monster Musume work Transparent (ID: 11741488). Additional thanks to breakaway-republic, whom is writing a ranch-based story as well. In fact, he published before I did, and I hope his tale only continues to grow! Check out his work: Bird's Eye View (ID: 12427363).**

 **Thank you once more. I declare this tale: complete!**


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